'"-^ 


((^^l^s^^Utt^"^ 


F  A  L  K  N  E  R. 


A    NOVEL. 


BY   THE   AUTHOR    OP 


'FRANKENSTEIN,"  "THE  LAST  MAN,"  &c. 


"  There  stood. 
In  record  of  a  sweet  sad  slory, 
An  aliar,  and  a  temple  bright. 
Circled  by  steps,  and  o'er  the  gate 
Was  sculptured,  "To  Fidelity  I'" 


COMPLETE      IN      ONE      VOLUME. 


NEW-YORK: 

PUBLISHED    BY    HARPEH    &    BROTHERS, 
NO.      8  2      CMFF-STREKT. 

1837. 


Digitized  by  tlie  Internet  Arcliive 
in  2010  witli  funding  from 
Duke  University  Libraries 


http://www.arcliive.org/details/falknernovelOOsliel 


F  A  L  K  N  E  R. 


CHAPTER  I. 

The  opening  scene  of  this  tale  took  place  in  a  little  vil- 
lage on  the  southern  coast  of  Cornwall.  Treby  (by  that 
name  we  choose  to  designate  a  spot  whose  true  one,  for 
several  reasons,  will  not  be  given)  was,  indeed,  rather  a 
hamlet  than  a  village ;  although,  being  at  the  seaside,  there 
were  two  or  three  houses  which,  by  dint  of  green  paint  and 
chints  curtains,  pretended  to  give  the  accommodation  of 
"  Apartments  Furnished"  to  the  few  bathers  who,  having 
heard  of  its  cheapness,  seclusion,  and  beauty,  now  and  then 
resorted  thither  from  the  neighbouring  towns. 

This  part  of  Cornwall  shares  much  of  the  peculiar  and 
exquisite  beauty  which  every  Englishman  knows  adorns 
"  the  sweet  shire  of  Devon."  The  hedges  near  Trcby,  like 
those  round  Dawlish  and  Torquay,  are  redolent  with  a  thou- 
sand flowers  ;  the  neighbouring  fields  are  pranked  with  all 
the  colours  of  Flora — its  soft  air — the  picturesque  bay  in 
which  it  stood,  as  it  were,  enshrined — its  red  cliffs,  and  ver- 
dure reaching  to  the  very  verge  of  the  tide — all  breathe  the 
same  festive  and  genial  atmosphere.  The  cottages  give 
the  same  promise  of  comfort,  and  are  adorned  by  nature 
with  more  luxurious  loveliness  than  the  villas  of  the  rich  in 
a  less  happy  climate. 

Treby  was  almost  unknown  ;  yet  whoever  visited  it  might 
well  prefer  its  sequestered  beauties  to  many  more  renowned 
competitors.  Situated  in  the  depths  of  a  little  bay.  it  was 
sheltered  on  all  sides  by  the  cliflTs.  Just  behind  the  hamlet 
the  cliff  made  a  break,  forming  a  little  ravine,  in  the  depth 
of  which  ran  a  clear  stream,  on  whose  banks  were  spread 
the  orchards  of  the  villagers,  whence  they  derived  their 
chief  wealth.  Tangled  bushes  and  luxuriant  herbage  diver- 
sified the  cliffs,  some  of  which  were  crowned  by  woods ; 
and  in  "  every  nook  and  coign  of  'vantage"  were  to  be  seen 
and  scented  the  glory  of  that  coast — its  exhaustless  store  of 
flowers.  The  village  was,  as  has  been  said,  in  the  depth  of 
a  bay ;  towards  the  east  the  coast  rounded  off  with  a  broad 
sweep,  forming  a  varied  line  of  bay  and  headland ;  to  the 


6  FALKNER.      . 

west  a  little  promontory  shot  out  abruptly,  and  at  once 
closed  in  the  view.  This  point  of  land  was  the  peculiarity 
of  Treby.  The  cliff  that  gave  it  its  picturesque  appearance 
was  not  high,  but  was  remarkable  for  being  crowned  by  the 
village  church,  with  its  slender  spire. 

Long  may  it  be  before  the  village  churchyard  ceases  to 
be  in  England  a  favoured  spot — the  home  of  rural  and  holy 
seclusion.  At  Treby  it  derived  a  new  beauty  from  its  dis- 
tance from  the  village  and  the  eminence  on  which  it  was 
placed,  overlooking  the  wide  ocean,  the  sands,  the  village 
itself,  with  its  gardens,  orchai-ds,  and  gayly-painted  fields. 
From  the  church  a  straggling,  steep,  yet  not  impracticable 
path  led  dov>^n  to  the  sands  by  way  of  the  beach ;  indeed, 
the  distance  from  the  village  to  the  church  was  scarcely 
more  than  half  a  mile  ;  but  no  vehicle  could  approach  ex- 
cept by  the  higher  road,  which,  following  the  line  of  coast, 
measured  nearly  two  miles.  The  edifice  itself,  picturesque 
in  its  rustic  simplicity,  seemed  at  the  distance  to  be  imbo- 
somed  in  a  neighbouring  grove.  There  was  no  house,  nor 
even  cottage,  near.  The  contiguous  churchyard  contained 
about  two  acres  ;  a  light  white  paling  surrounded  it  on  three 
sides ;  on  the  fourth  was  a  high  wall,  clothed  thickly  with 
ivy  :  the  trees  of  the  near  wood  overhung  both  wall  and  pa- 
ling, except  on  the  side  of  the  cliff".  The  waving  of  their 
branches,  the  murmur  of  the  tide,  and  the  occasional  scream 
of  seafowl,  were  all  the  sounds  that  disturbed,  or  rather 
harmonized  with,  the  repose  and  solitude  of  the  spot. 

On  Sunday,  the  inhabitants  of  several  hamlets  congregated 
here  to  attend  divine  service.  Those  of  Treby  usually  ap- 
proached by  the  beach  and  the  path  of  the  cliff,  the  old  and 
infirm  only  taking  the  longer  but  more  easy  road.  On  ev- 
ery other  day  of  the  week  all  was  quiet,  except  when  the 
hallowed  precincts  were  visited  by  happy  parents  with  a 
newborn  babe,  by  bride  and  bridegroom  hastening  all  gladly 
to  enter  on  the  joys  and  cares  of  life — or  by  the  train  of 
mourners  who  attended  relation  or  friend  to  the  last  repose 
of  the  dead. 

The  poor  are  not  sentimental — and,  except  on  Sunday, 
after  evening  service,  when  a  mother  might  linger  for  a  few 
moments  near  the  fresh  grave  of  a  lately  lost  child — or,  loi- 
tering among  the  rustic  tombs,  some  of  the  elder  peasants 
told  tales  of  the  feats  of  the  dead  companions  of  their  youtli, 
a  race  unequalled,  so  they  said,  by  the  generation  around 
them.  Save  on  that  day,  none  ever  visited  or  waiidered 
among  the  graves,  with  the  one  exception  of  a  child,  who 
had  early  learned  to  mourn,  yet  whose  infantine  mind  could 
scarcely  understand  tlie  extent  of  tlie  cause  she  had  for 
tears.  A  little  girl,  unnoticed  and  alone,  was  wont  each 
evening  to  trip  over  the  sands — to  scale  with  light  steps  the 
cliff,  which  was  of  no  gigantic  height,  and  then,  unlatdiiiig 


FALKNER.  7 

the  low  white  gate  of  the  churcliyard,  to  repair  to  one  cor- 
ner, wliere  the  boughs  of  the  near  trees  shadowed  over  two 
graves — two  graves,  of  which  one  only  was  distinguished  by 
a  simple  headstone,  to  commemorate  the  name  of  him  who 
mouldered  beneath.  This  tomb  was  inscribed  to  the  mem- 
ory of  Edwin  Raby,  but  the  neighbouring  and  less  honoured 
grave  cUiimed  more  of  the  child's  attention — for  her  mother 
lay  beneath  the  unrecorded  turf. 

Beside  this  grassy  hillock  she  Avould  sit,  and  talk  to  her- 
self, and  play,  till,  warned  home  by  the  twilight,  she  knelt 
and  said  lier  little  prayer,  and,  with  a  "  Good-night,  mam- 
ma," took  leave  of  a  spot  with  which  was  associated  the 
being  whose  caresses  and  love  she  called  to  mind,  hoping 
that  one  day  she  might  again  enjoy  them.  Her  appearance 
had  much  in  it  to  invite  remark,  had  there  been  any  who 
cared  to  notice  a  poor  little  orphan.  Her  dress,  in  some  of 
its  parts,  betokened  that  she  belonged  to  the  better  classes 
■of  society ;  but  she  had  no  stockings,  and  her  little  feet 
peeped  from  the  holes  of  her  well-worn  shoes.  Her  straw 
bonnet  was  died  dark  with  sun  and  sea  spray,  and  its  blue 
riband  faded.  The  child  herself  would,  in  any  other  spot, 
have  attracted  more  attention  than  the  incongruities  of  her 
attire.  There  is  an  expression  of  face  which  we  name  an- 
gelic, from  its  purity,  its  tenderness,  and,  so  to  speak,  plain- 
tive serenity,  which  we  oftener  see  in  young  children  than 
in  persons  of  a  more  advanced  age.  And  such  was  hers  : 
her  hair,  of  a  light  golden  brown,  was  parted  over  a  brow 
fair  and  open  as  day :  her  eyes,  deep  set  and  earnest,  were 
full  of  thought  and  tenderness :  her  complexion  was  pure 
and  stainless,  except  by  the  roses  that  glowed  in  her  cheek  ; 
while  each  vein  could  be  traced  on  her  temples,  and  you 
could  almost  mark  the  floAV  of  the  violet-coloured  blood  be- 
neath :  her  moutli  was  the  very  nest  of  love :  her  serious 
look  was  at  once  fond  and  imploring ;  but  when  she  smiled, 
it  was  as  if  sunshine  broke  out  at  once,  warm  and  uncloud- 
ed :  her  figure  had  the  plumpness  of  infancy ;  but  her  tiny 
hands  and  feet,  and  tapering  waist,  denoted  the  faultless 
perfection  of  her  form.  She  was  about  six  years  old — a 
friendless  orphan,  cast,  thus  young,  penniless,  on  a  thorny, 
stony-hearted  world. 

Nearly  two  years  previous,  a  gentleman,  Avith  his  wife 
and  little  daughter,  arrived  at  Treby,  and  took  up  his  abode 
at  one  of  the  moderate-priced  lodging-houses  before  men- 
tioned. Tlie  occasion  of  their  visit  was  but  too  evident. 
The  husband,  IMr.  Raby,  was  dying  of  a  consumption.  The 
family  had  migrated  early  in  September,  so  to  receive  tlie 
full  benefit  of  a  mild  winter  in  this  favoured  spot.  It  did  not 
appear  to  those  about  him  that  he  could  live  to  see  that  win- 
ter. He  was  wasted  lo  a  shadow — the  hectic  in  his  cheek, 
the  brightness  of  his  eyes,  and  the  debility  apparent  in  ever- 


8  FALKNER. 

movement,  showed  that  disease  was  triumphing  over  the 
principles  of  life.  Yet,  contrary  to  every  prognostic,  he 
lived  on  from  week  to  week,  from  month  to  month.  Now 
he  was  said  to  be  better — now  worse — and  thus  a  winter  of 
extraordinaiy  mildness  was  passed.  But  with  the  east 
winds  of  spring  a  great  deterioration  was  visible.  His  in- 
valid walks  in  the  sun  grew  shorter,  and  then  were  ex- 
changed for  a  few  minutes  passed  sitting  in  his  garden. 
Soon  he  was  confined  to  his  room — then  to  his  bed.  During 
the  first  week  of  a  bleak  ungenial  May,  he  died. 

The  extreme  affection  tliat  subsisted  between  the  pair 
rendered  his  widow  an  object  of  interest  even  to  the  villa- 
gers. They  were  both  young,  and  she  was  beautiful ;  and 
more  beautiful  was  their  offspring — the  little  girl  we  have 
mentioned:— who,  watched  over  and  attended  on  by  her  mo- 
ther, attracted  admiration  as  well  as  interest,  bj^  the  peculiar 
style  of  her  childish,  yet  perfect  loveliness.  Every  one  won- 
dered what  the  bereaved  lady  would  do  ;  and  she,  poor  soul, 
wondered  herself,  and  would  sit  watching  the  gambols  of  her 
child  in  an  attitude  of  unutterable  despondency,  till  the  little 
girl,  remarking  the  sadness  of  her  mother,  gave  over  play- 
ing to  caress,  and  kiss  her,  and  to  bid  her  smile.  At  such  a 
word  the  tears  fell  fast  from  the  widow's  eyes,  and  the 
frightened  child  Joined  her  sobs  and  cries  to  hers. 

Whatever  might  be  the  sorrows  and  difficulties  of  the  un- 
happy lady,  it  was  soon  evident  to  all  but  herself  that  her 
own  life  was  a  fragile  tenure.  She  had  attended  on  her 
husband  with  unwearied  assiduity,  and,  added  to  bodily  fa- 
tigue, was  mental  suffering ;  partly  arising  from  anxiety 
and  grief,  and  partly  from  the  very  virtues  of  the  sufferer. 
He  knew  that  he  was  dying,  and  tried  to  reconcile  his  wife 
to  her  anticipated  loss.  But  his  words,  breathing  the  most 
passionate  love  and  purest  piety,  seemed  almost  to  call  her 
also  from  the  desolation  to  which  he  was  leaving  her,  and 
to  dissolve  the  ties  that  held  her  to  earth.  When  he  was 
gone,  life  possessed  no  one  attraction  except  their  child. 
Often  while  her  father,  with  pathetic  eloquence,  tried  to 
pour  the  balm  of  resignation,  and  hopes  of  eternal  reunion, 
into  his  wife's  heart,  she  had  sat  on  her  mother's  knee,  or 
on  a  little  stool  at  her  feet,  and  looked  up,  with  her  cherub 
face,  a  little  perplexed,  a  little  fearful,  till,  at  some  words  of 
too  plain  and  too  dread  an  import,  she  sprung  into  her 
father's  arms,  and  clinging  to  his  neck,  amid  tears  and 
sobs,  cried  out,  "  You  must  not  leave  us,  papa  !  you  must 
stay — you  shall  not  go  away  !" 

Consumption,  in  all  countries  except  our  own,  is  consid- 
ered a  contagious  disorder,  and  it  too  often  proves  such  here. 
During  her  close  attendance,  Mrs.  Raby  had  imbibed  the 
seeds  of  the  fatal  malady  ;  and  grief,  and  a  delicate  texture 
of  nerves,  caused  them'  to  develop  with  alarming  rapidity. 


FALKNER.  9 

Evory  one  perceived  tliis  except  herself.  She  thought  that 
lier  indisposition  sprung  from  over-fatigue  and  grief,  but  lliat 
lepose  would  soon  restore  her  ;  and  each  day,  as  her  flesh 
Avastcd  and  her  blood  flowed  more  rapidly,  she  said,  "  I 
shall  be  better  to-morrow."  There  was  no  one  at  Trebyto 
advise  or  assist  her.  Slie  was  not  one  of  those  who  make 
friends  and  intimates  of  all  who  fall  in  their  way.  She 
was  gentle,  considerate,  courteous — but  her  refined  mind 
shrunk  from  displaying  its  deep  wounds  to  the  vulgar  and 
unfeeling. 

After  her  husband's  death  she  had  written  several  letters, 
which  she  carefully  piit  into  the  postoffice  herself — going 
on  purpose  to  the  nearest  post-town,  three  miles  distant. 
Slie  had  received  one  in  answer,  and  it  had  the  effect  of  in- 
creasing eveiy  fatal  symptom,  through  the  anguish  and  ex- 
cesf^ve  agitation  it  excited.  Sometimes  she  talked  of  leav- 
ing Treby,  but  she  delayed  till  she  should  be  better ;  which 
time,  the  villagers  plainly  saw,  would  never  come,  but  they 
were  not  aware  how  awfully  near  the  crisis  really  was. 

One  morning — her  husband  had  now  been  dead  about  four' 
months — she  called  up  the  woman  of  the  house  in  which  she 
lodged ;  there  was  a  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  pink  spot  burnt 
brightly  in  either  cheek,  while  her  brow  was  ashy  pale ; 
there  was  something  ghastly  in  the  very  gladness  her  coun- 
tenance expressed ;  yet  she  felt  nothing  of  all  this,  but  said, 
*'  The  newspaper  you  lent  me  had  good  news  in  it,  Mrs.  Ba- 
ker. It  tells  me  that  a  dear  friend  of  mine  is  arrived  in  Eng- 
land, whom  I  thought  still  on  the  Continent.  I  am  going  to 
write  to  !ier.  Will  you  let  your  daughter  take  my  little  girl 
a  walk  while  I  write  T" 

Mrs.  Baker  consented.  The  child  was  equipped  and  sent 
out,  wliile  her  mother  sat  down  to  write.  In  about  an  hour 
she  came  out  of  her  parlour ;  Mrs.  Baker  saw  her  going  to- 
Avards  the  garden ;  she  tottered  as  she  walked,  so  the 
woman  hastened  to  her.  "  Tliank  you,"  she  said ;  "  I  feel 
strangely  friint — I  had  much  to  say,  and  that  letter  has  un- 
hinged me — I  must  finish  it  to-morrow — now  the  air  will  re- 
store me — I  can  scarcely  breathe." 

Mrs.  Baker  off'ered  her  arm.  The  sufferer  Avalked  faintly 
and  feebly  to  a  little  bench,  and  sitting  down,  supported  her- 
self by  her  companion.  Her  breath  grew  shorter ;  she  mur- 
mured some  words  ;  Mrs.  Baker  bent  down,  but  could  catch 
only  the  name  of  her  child,  which  was  the  last  sound  that 
hovered  on  the  mother's  lips.  With  one  sigh  her  heart 
ceased  to  beat,  and  life  left  her  exhausted  frame.  The  poor 
woman  screamed  loudly  for  help  as  she  felt  her  press  heav- 
ily against  her  ;  and  then,  sliding  from  her  seat,  sink  lifeless 
on  the  grouitd. 


10  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  II. 


It  was  to  Mrs.  Baker's  credit  that  she  did  not  attempt  to 
investigate  the  affairs  of  her  hapless  lodger  till  after  the  fu- 
neral. A  purse,  containing  twelve  guineas,  which  she  found 
on  her  table,  served,  indeed,  to  satisfy  her  that  she  would 
be  no  immediate  loser.  However,  as  soon  as  tlie  sod  cov- 
ered the  gentle  form  of  the  unfortunate  lady,  she  proceeded 
to  examine  her  papers.  The  first  that  presented  itself  was 
the  unfinished  letter  which  Mrs.  Raby  was  engaged  in  wri- 
ting at  the  time  of  her  death.  This  promised  information, 
and  Mrs.  Baker  read  it  with  eagerness.  It  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  My  dearest  Friend, 

"  A  newspaper  has  just  informed  me  that  you  are  returned 
to  England,  while  1  still  believed  you  to  be,  I  know  not  where, 
on  the  Continent.  Dearest  girl,  it  is  long  since  I  have  written, 
for  I  have  been  too  sad,  too  uncertain  about  your  movements, 
and  too  unwilling  to  cloud  your  happiness,  by  forcing  you  to 
remember  one  so  miserable.  My  beloved  friend,  my  school- 
fellow, my  benefactress  ;  you  will  grieve  to  hear  of  my  mis- 
fortunes, and  it  is  selfish  in  me,  even  now,  to  intrude  upon 
you  with  the  tale ;  but,  under  heaven,  I  have  no  hope,  ex- 
cept in  my  generous,  my  warm-hearted  Alithea.  Perhaps 
you  have  already  heard  of  my  disaster,  and  are  aware  that 
death  has  robbed  me  of  the  happiness  which,  under  your 
kind  fosterage,  I  had  acquired  and  enjoyed.  He  is  dead 
who  was  my  all  in  this  world,  and  but  for  one  tie  I  should 
bless  the  day  when  I  might  be  permitted  to  rest  for  ever 
beside  him. 

"  I  often  wonder,  dear  Alithea,  at  the  heedlessness  and 
want  of  foresight  with  which  I  entered  life.  Doomed, 
through  poverty  and  my  orphan  state,  to  earn  my  bread  as 
a  governess,  my  entrance  on  that  irksome  task  was  only 
delayed  by  my  visit  to  you  ;  then  under  your  dear  roof  I  saw 
and  was  beloved  by  Edwin ;  and  his  entreaties,  and  your  en- 
couragement, permitted  my  trembling  heart  to  dream  of — 
to  possess  happiness.  Timidity  of  character  made  me  shrink 
from  my  career:  diffidence  never  allowed  me  to  suppose 
that  any  one  would  interest  themselves  enough  in  me  to 
raise  the  poor  trembler  from  the  ground,  to  shelter  and  pro- 
feet  her;  and  this  kind  of  despondency  rendered  Edwin's 
love  a  new,  glorious,  and  divine  joy.  Yet,  when  I  thought  ' 
of  his  parents,  I  trembled — I  could  not  bear  to  enter  a  family 
where  I  was  to  be  regarded  as  an  unwelcome  intruder;  yet 


FALKNER.  11 

I^dwin  was  already  an  outcast — already  father  and  brothers, 
every  relation,  had  disowned  him — and  he,  like  I,  was  alone. 
And  you,  Alithea,  how  fondly,  how  sweetly  did  you  en- 
courage me — making  that  appear  my  duty  which  was  the 
fulfilment  of  my  wildest  dreams  of  joy.  Surely  no  being 
ever  felt  friendship  as  you  have  done — sympathizing  even  in 
the  lUAtold  secrets  of  a  timid  heart — enjoying  the  happiness 
that  you  conferred  with  an  ardour  few  can  feel,  even  for 
themselves.  Your  transports  of  dehght  when  you  saw  me, 
through  your  means,  blessed,  touched  me  with  a  gratitude 
that  can  never  die.  And  do  I  show  this  by  asking  now  for 
your  pity,  and  saddening  you  by  my  grief  1  Pardon  me, 
sweet  friend,  and  do  not  wonder  that  this  thought  has  long 
delayed  ray  letter. 

"  We  were  happy — poor,  but  content.  Poverty  was  no 
evil  to  me,  and  Pxlwin  supported  every  privation  as  if  he 
had  never  been  accustomed  to  luxury.  The  spirit  that  had 
caused  him  to  shake  off  the  shackles  his  bigoted  family 
threw  over  him,  animated  him  to  exertions  beyond  his 
strength.  He  had  chosen  for  himself — he  wished  to  prove 
that  his  choice  was  good.  I  do  not  allude  to  our  marriage, 
but  to  his  desertion  of  the  family  religion,  and  determination 
to  follow  a  career  not  permitted  by  the  policy  of  his  relations 
to  any  younger  son.  He  was  called  to  the  bar — he  toiled 
incessantly — he  was  ambitious,  and  his  talents  gave  every 
promise  of  success.  He  is  gone — gone  for  ever !  I  have 
lost  the  noblest,  wisest  friend  that  ever  breathed,  the  most 
devoted  lover,  and  truest  husband  that  ever  blessed  woman ! 

"  I  write  incoherently.  You  know  what  our  hfe  in  Lon- 
don was — obscure,  but  happy — the  scanty  pittance  allowed 
him  seemed  to  me  amply  to  sutlice  for  all  our  wants ;  I 
only  then  knew  of  the  wants  of  youth  and  health,  whiciv 
were  love  and  sympathy.  I  had  all  this,  crowning  to  the 
brim  my  cup  of  life — the  birth  of  our  sweet  child  filled  it  to 
overflowing.  Our  dingy  lodgings,  near  the  courts  of  law, 
were  a  palace  to  me  ;  I  should  have  despised  myself  heartily 
could  I  have  desired  anything  beyond  what  I  possessed.  I 
never  did — nor  did  I  fear  its  loss.  I  was  grateful  to  Heaven, 
and  thus  I  fancied  that  I  paid  the  debt  of  my  unmeasured 
prosperity. 

"  Can  I  say  what  I  felt  when  I  marked  Edwin's  restless 
nights,  flushed  cheek,  and  the  cough  that  would  not  go  away  I 
these  things  I  dare  not  dwell  upon — my  tears  overflow — my 
heart  beats  to  bursting — the  fatal  truth  was  at  last  declared ; 
the  fatal  word,  consumption,  spoken  :  change  of  air  was  all 
the  hope  held  out — we  came  here ;  the  churchyard  near 
holds  now  all  earthly  that  remains  of  him — would  that  my 
dust  were  mingling  with  his  ! 

"  Yet  I  have  a  child,  my  Alithea  ;  and  you,  who  are  in- 
comparable as  a  mother,  will  feel  that  I  ought  not  to  grieve 


12  FALKNER. 

SO  bitterly  while  this  dear  angel  remains  to  me.  I  know, 
indeed,  that  without  her  life  would  at  once  suspend  all  its 
functions  ;  why,  then,  is  it,  that  while  she  is  with  me  I  am 
not  stronger,  more  heroic  1  for,  to  keep  her  with  me,  I  must 
leave  the  indolpuce  of  my  present  life — I  must  earn  the 
bread  of  both.  I  should  not  repine  at  this — I  shall  not  when 
I  am  better  ;  but  I  am  very  ill  and  weak ;  and  though  each 
day  I  rise,  resolving  to  exert  myself,  before  the  morning 
has  passed  away  I  lie  down  exhausted,  trembling,  and 
faint. 

"  When  I  lost  Edwin,  I  wrote  to  Mr.  Raby,  acquainting 
him  with  the  sad  intelligence,  and  asking  for  a  maintenance 
for  myself  and  my  child.  The  family  solicitor  answered 
my  letter;  Edwin's  conduct  had,  I  was  told,  estranged  his 
family  from  him ;  and  they  could  only  regard  me  as  one  en- 
couraging his  disobedience  and  apostacy.  I  had  no  claim 
on  them.  If  my  child  were  sent  to  them,  and  I  would  prom- 
ise to  abstain  from  all  intercourse  with  her,  she  should  be 
brought  up  with  her  cousins,  and  treated  in  all  respects  like 
one  of  the  family.  I  answered  this  letter  hastily  and  proudly, 
I  declined  their  barbarous  offer,  and  haughtily,  and  in  few 
words,  relinquished  every  claim  on  their  bounty,  declaring 
my  intention  to  support  and  bring  up  my  child  myself. 
This  was  foolishly  done,  I  fear  ;  but  I  cannot  regret  it,  even 
now. 

"  I  cannot  regret  the  impulse  that  made  me  disdain  these 
unnatural  and  cruel  relatives,  or  that  led  me  to  take  my 
poor  orphan  to  my  heart  with  pride,  as  being  ail  my  own. 
What  had  they  done  to  merit  such  a  treasure  !  Hoav  did 
they  show  themselves  capable  of  replacing  a  fond  and  anx- 
ious mother  \  How  many  blooming  girls  have  they  sacri- 
ficed to  their  peculiar  views !  With  what  careless  eyes 
they  regard  the  sweetest  emotions  of  nature  !  never  shall 
my  adored  girl  be  made  the  victim  of  that  loveless  race. 
Do  you  remember  our  sweet  child  ]  She  was  lovely  from 
her  birth ;  and  surely,  if  ever  angel  assumed  an  earthly  ves- 
ture, it  took  a  form  like  my  darling  :  her  loveliness  expresses 
only  the  beauty  of  her  disposition  :  so  young,  yet  so  full  of 
sensibility ;  her  temper  is  without  a  flaw,  and  her  intelli- 
gence transcends  her  age.  You  will  not  laugh  at  me  for 
my  maternal  enthusiasm,  nor  will  you  wonder  at  it ;  her 
endearing  caresses,  her  cherub  smiles,  the  silver  accents  of 
her  infantine  voice,  fill  me  with  trembling  rapture.  Is  she 
not  too  good  for  this  bad  world  I  I  fear  it,  I  fear  to  lose 
her  ;  I  fear  to  die  and  to  leave  her  ;  yet,  if  I  should,  will  you 
not  cherish,  will  you  not  be  a  mother  to  her  !  I  may  be  pre- 
sumptuous ;  but  if  I  were  to  die  even  now,  I  should  die  in  the 
belief  that  I  left  my  child  another  mother  in  you — " 

The  letter  broke  off  here,  and  these  were  the  last  words 


FALKNER.  13 

of  the  unfortunate  writer.  It  contained  a  sad,  but  too  coni- 
nion  story  of  the  hard-heartedness  of  the  wealthy,  and  the 
misery  endured  by  the  children  of  the  high-born.  Blood  is 
not  water,  it  is  said,  but  gold  with  them  is  dearer  far  than  the 
ties  of  nature  ;  to  keep  and  augment  their  possessions  being 
the  aim  and  end  of  their  lives,  the  existence,  and,  more  es- 
pecially, the  happiness  of  their  children,  appears  to  them  a 
consideration  at  once  trivial  and  impertinent,  when  it  would 
compete  with  family  views  and  family  greatness.  To  this 
common  and  iniquitous  feeling  these  luckless  beings  were 
sacrificed  ;  they  had  endured  the  worst,  and  could  be  injured 
no  more ;  but  their  orphan  child  was  a  living  victim,  less 
thought  of  than  the  progeny  of  the  meanest  animal  which 
might  serve  to  augment  their  possessions. 

Mrs.  Baker  felt  some  complacency  on  reading  this  letter: 
with  the  common  English  respect  for  wealth  and  rank,  she 
was  glad  to  find  that  her  humble  roof  had  sheltered  a  man 
who  was  the  son — she  did  not  exacitly  know  of  whom,  but 
of  somebody,  who  had  younger  sons  and  elder  sons,  and 
possessed,  through  wealth,  the  power  of  behaving  frightful- 
ly ill  to  a  vast  number  of  persons.  There  was  a  grandeur 
and  dignity  in  the  very  idea ;  but  the  good  woman  felt  less 
satisfaction  as  she  proceeded  in  her  operations — no  other 
letter  or  paper  appeared  to  inform  or  to  direct,  f^very  let- 
ter had  been  destroyed,  and  the  young  pair  had  brought 
no  papers  or  documents  with  them.  She  could  not  guess 
to  whom  the  unfinished  letter  she  held  was  addressed ;  all 
was  darkness  and  ignorance.  She  was  aghast — there  was 
none  to  whom  to  apply — none  to  whoui  to  send  the  orphan. 
In  a  more  busy  part  of  the  world,  an  advertisement  in  the 
newspapers  would  have  presented  itself  as  a  resource ;  but 
Treby  was  too  much  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  the  world  for 
its  inhabitants  to  conceive  so  daring  an  idea  ;  and  Mrs.  Ba- 
ker, repining  much  at  the  burden  fallen  upon  her,  and  fear- 
ful of  the  future,  could  imagine  no  means  by  which  to  dis- 
cover the  relations  of  the  little  orphan ;  and  her  only  no- 
tion was  to  wait,  in  hopes  that  some  among  them  would  at 
last  make  inquiries  concerning  her. 

Nearly  a  year  had  passed  away,  and  no  one  had  appeared. 
The  unfortunate  lady's  purse  was  soon  emptied — and  her 
watch,  with  one  or  two  trinkets  of  slight  value,  disposed 
of.  The  child  was  of  small  cost,  but  still  her  sordid  pro- 
tectress harped  perpetually  on  her  ill  luck  :  she  had  a  fam- 
ily of  her  own,  and  plenty  of  mouths  to  feed.  Missy  was 
but  little,  but  she  would  get  bigger — though  for  that  matter 
it  was  worse  now,  as  she  wanted  more  taking  care  of — be- 
sides, she  was  getting  quite  a  disgrace — her  bonnet  was  so 
shabby,  and  her  shoes  worn  out — and  how  could  she  afford 
to  buy  others  for  one  who  was  not  a  bit  of  her  flesh  and 
blood,  to  the  evident  hurt  of  her  own  children  \  It  was 
3 


14  FALKNER. 

bad  enough  now ;  but,  by-and-by,  she  saw  nothing  but  the 
parish  ;  though  Missy  was  born  for  better  than  that,  and 
her  poor  mamma  would  turn  in  her  grave  at  the  name  of 
such  a  thing.  For  her  part,  she  was  to  blame,  she  feared, 
and  too  generous — but  she  would  wait  yet  a  little  longer 
before  it  came  to  that — for  who  could  tell — and  here  Mrs. 
Baker's  prudence  dammed  up  the  stream  of  her  eloquence 
— to  no  living  ear  did  she  dare  trust  her  dream  of  the  coach 
and  six  that  might  one  day  come  for  her  little  charge — and 
the  remuneration  and  presents  that  would  be  heaped  upon 
her ;  she  actually  saved  the  child's  best  frock,  though  she 
had  quite  outgrown  it,  that  on  such  a  day  her  appearance 
might  do  her  honour.  But  this  was  a  secret — she  hid  these 
vague  but  splendid  images  deep  in  her  heart,  lest  some 
neighbour  might  be  seized  with  a  noble  emulation — and, 
through  some  artifice,  share  in  her  dreamy  gains.  It  was 
these  anticipations  that  prevented  Mrs.  Baker  from  taking 
any  decisive  step  injurious  to  her  charge — but  they  did  not 
shed  any  rosy  hues  over  her  diurnal  complaints — they  grew 
more  peevish  and  frequent  as  time  passed  away,  and  her 
visions  attained  no  realization. 

The  little  orphan  grew,  meanwhile,  as  a  garden  rose  that 
accident  has  thrown  amid  briers  and  weeds — blooming  with 
alien  beauty,  and  unfolding  its  soft  petals — and  shedding  its 
ambrosial  odour  beneath  the  airs  of  heaven,  unharmed  by 
its  strange  position.  Lovely  as  a  day  of  paradise,  which, 
by  some  strange  chance,  visits  this  nether  world  to  gladden 
every  heart,  she  charmed  even  her  selfish  protectress  ;  and, 
despite  her  shabby  attire,  her  cherub  smiles — the  free  and 
noble  steps  which  her  tiny  feet  could  take  even  now,  and 
the  music  of  her  voice,  rendered  her  the  object  of  respect 
and  admiration,  as  well  as  love,  to  the  whole  village. 

The  loss  of  her  father  had  acquainted  the  poor  child  with 
death.  Her  mother  had  explained  the  awful  mystery  as 
well  as  she  could  to  her  infantine  intellects,  and,  indulging 
in  her  own  womanish  and  tender  fancies,  had  often  spoken 
of  the  dead  as  hovering  over  and  watching  around  his  loved 
ones,  even  in  the  new  state  of  existence  to  which  he  had 
been  called.  Yet  she  wept  as  she  spoke  :  "  He  is  happy," 
she  exclaimed,  "  but  he  is  not  here  !  Why  did  he  leave  us  1 
Ah,  why  desert  those  who  loved  him  so  well,  who  need  him 
so  dearly !  How  forlorn  and  cast  away  are  we  without 
him !" 

These  scenes  made  a  deep  impression  upon  the  sensitive 
child — and  when  her  mother  died  too,  and  was  carried 
away  and  placed  in  the  cold  earth  beside  her  husband,  the 
orphan  would  sit  for  hours  by  the  graves,  now  fancying  that 
her  mother  must  soon  return,  now  exclaiming,  "  Why  are 
you  gone  away  ^  Come,  dear  mamma,  come  back — come 
tjuickly !"     Young  as  she  was,  it  was  no  wonder  that  such 


PALKNER.  15 

thoughts  were  familiar  to  her.  The  minds  of  children  are 
often  as  intelligent  as  those  of  persons  of  niaturer  age — and 
differ  only  by  containing  fewer  ideas — but  these  had  so 
often  been  presented  to  her — and  she  so  fixed  her  little 
heart  on  the  idea  that  her  mother  was  watching  over  her, 
that  at  last  it  became  a  part  of  her  religion  to  visit,  every 
evening,  the  two  graves,  and  saying  her  prayers  near  them, 
to  believe  that  her  mother's  spirit,  which  was  obscurely 
associated  with  her  mortal  remains  reposing  below,  listened 
to  and  blessed  her  on  that  spot. 

At  other  times,  neglected  as  she  was,  and  left  to  wander 
at  will,  she  conned  her  lesson,  as  she  had  been  accustomed 
at  her  mother's  feet,  beside  her  grave.  She  took  her  pic- 
ture-books there,  and  even  her  playthings.  The  villagers 
were  affected  by  her  childish  notion  of  being  "  with  mamma ;" 
and  Missy  became  something  of  an  angel  in  their  eyes,  so 
that  no  one  interfered  with  her  visits,  or  tried  to  explaiil 
away  her  fancies.  She  was  the  nursling  of  love  and  na- 
ture :  but  the  human  hearts  which  could  have  felt  the  great- 
est tenderness  for  her  beat  no  longer,  and  had  become 
clods  of  the  soil — 

"  Borne  round  in  earth's  diurnal  course 
With  rocks,  and  stones,  and  trees." 

There  was  no  knee  on  which  she  could  playfully  climb — 
no  neck  round  which  she  could  fondly  hang — no  parent's 
cheek  on  which  to  print  her  happy  kisses — these  two  graves 
were  all  of  relationship  she  knew  upon  the  earth — and  she 
would  kiss  the  ground  and  the  flowers,  not  one  of  which 
she  plucked — as  she  sat  embracing  the  sod.  "  Mamma" 
was  everywhere  around.  "  Mamma"  was  there  beneath, 
and  still  she  could  love  and  feel  herself  beloved. 

At  other  times  she  played  gayly  with  her  young  compan- 
ions in  the  village — and  sometimes  she  fancied  that  she 
loved  some  one  among  them — she  made  them  presents  of 
books  and  toys,  the  relics  of  happier  days  ;  for  the  desire 
to  benefit,  which  springs  up  so  naturally  in  a  loving  heart, 
was  strong  within  her,  even  in  that  early  age.  But  she 
nevA-  took  any  one  with  her  in  her  churchyard  visits — she 
needed  none  while  she  was  with  mamma.  Once,  indeed,  a 
favourite  kitten  was  carried  to  the  sacred  spot,  and  the  lit- 
tle animal  played  amid  the  grass  and  flowers,  and  the  child 
joined  in  its  frolics — her  solitary  gay  laugh  might  be  heard 
among  the  tombs — she  did  not  think  it  solitary  ;  mamma 
was  there  to  smile  on  her,  as  she  sported  with  her  tiny 
favourite, 


16  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  III. 


Towards  the  end  of  a  hot,  calm  day  of  June,  a  stranger 
arrived  at  Treby.  The  variations  of  cahn  and  wind  are  al- 
ways remarkable  at  the  seaside,  and  are  more  particularly 
to  be  noticed  on  this  occasion ;  since  it  was  the  stillness  of 
the  elements  that  caused  the  arrival  of  the  stranger.  During 
the  whole  day  several  vessels  had  been  observed  in  the  of- 
fing, lying  to  for  a  wind,  or  making  small  way  under  press 
of  sail.  As  evening  came  on,  the  water  beyond  the  bay  lay 
calmer  than  ever ;  but  a  slight  breeze  blew  from  shore,  and 
these  vessels,  principally  colliers,"  bore  down  close  under  it, 
endeavouring  by  short  tacks  to  procure  a  long  one,  and  at 
last  to  gain  searoom  to  make  the  eastern  headland  of  the 
bay.  The  fishermen  on  shore  watched  the  manopuvres  of 
the  different  craft ;  and  even  interchanged  shouts  with  the 
sailors,  as  they  lay  lazily  on  the  beach.  At  length  they 
were  put  in  motion  by  a  hail  for  a  boat  from  a  small  mer- 
chantman— the  call  was  obeyed — the  boat  neared  the  vessel 
— a  gentleman  descended  into  it — his  portmanteau  was 
handed  after  him — a  few  strokes  of  the  oar  drove  the  boat 
on  the  beach,  and  the  stranger  leaped  out  upon  the  sands. 

The  new  comer  gave  a  brief  order,  directing  his  slight  lug- 
gage to  be  carried  to  the  best  inn,  and,  paying  the  boatmen 
liberally,  strolled  away  to  a  more  solitary  part  of  tlie  beach. 
"  A  gentleman,"  all  the  spectators  decided  him  to  be — and 
such  a  designation  served  for  a  full  description  of  the  new 
arrival  to  the  villagers  of  Treby.  But  it  were  better  to  say 
a  few  words  to  draw  him  from  among  a  vast  multitude  who 
might  be  similarly  named,  and  to  bestow  individuality  on 
the  person  in  question.  It  would  be  best  so  to  present  his 
appearance  and  manner  to  the  "  mind's  eye"  of  the  reader, 
that  if  any  met  him  by  chance,  he  might  exclaim,  "  That  is 
the  man  !"  Yet  there  is  no  task  more  diflicult  than  to  con- 
vey to  another,  by  mere  words,  an  image,  however  distinctly 
it  is  impressed  on  our  own  minds.  The  individual  expres- 
sion and  peculiar  traits  wliicli  cause  a  man  to  be  recog- 
nised among  ten  thousand  of  his  fellow-men,  by  one  who 
has  known  liini,  tliough  so  palpable  to  the  eye,  escape  when 
we  would  find  words  whereby  to  delineate  them. 

There  was  something  in  the  stranger  that  at  once  arrested 
attention — a  freedom,  and  a  command  of  manner — self-pos- 
session joined  to  energy.  It  might  be  diflicult  to  guess  his 
age,  for  liis  face  liad  been  exposed  to  the  bronzing  influence 
of  a  tropical  climate,  and  the  smoothness  of  youth  was  ex- 
changed for  the  deeper  lines  of  maturity,  without  anythiiig 


FALKNER.  17 

being  as  yet  taken  from  the  vigour  of  the  limbs,  or  the  per- 
fection of  those  portions  of  the  frame  and  face,  wliich  so 
soon  show  marks  of  decay.  He  might  have  reached  the 
verge  of  thirty,  but  he  could  not  be  older — and  might  be 
younger.  His  figure  was  active,  sinewy,  and  strong — up- 
right as  a  soldier  (indeed,  a  military  air  was  diffused  all  over 
his  person)  ;  he  was  tall,  and,  to  a  certain  degree,  handsome ; 
his  dark  gray  eyes  were  piercing  as  an  eagle 's,  and  his  fore- 
head high  and  expansive,  though  somewhat  distorted  by  vari- 
ous lines  that  spoke  more  of  passion  than  thought ;  yet  his  face 
was  eminently  intelligent ;  his  mouth,  rather  too  large  in  its 
proportions,  yet  grew  into  beauty  when  he  smiled — indeed, 
the  remarkable  trait  of  his  physiognomy  was  its  great  varia- 
tion— restless,  and  even  fierce  ;  the  expression  was  often  that 
of  passionate  and  unquiet  thoughts  ;  while  at  other  times  it 
was  almost  bland  from  the  apparent  smoothness  and  grace- 
ful undulation  of  the  hues.  It  was  singular,  that  when  com- 
muning only  with  himself,  storms  appeared  to  shake  his 
muscles  and  disfigure  the  harmony  of  his  countenance — 
and  that,  when  he  addressed  others,  all  was  composed — full 
of  meaning,  and  yet  of  repose.  His  complexion,  naturally 
of  an  olive  tint,  had  grown  red  and  adust  under  the  influ- 
ence of  climate — and  often  flushed  from  the  inroads  of  ve- 
hement feeling.  You  could  not  doubt  at  the  instant  of  seeing 
him,  that  many  singular,  perhaps  tragical,  incidents  were  at- 
tai  bed  to  his  history — but  conviction  was  enforced  that  he 
reversed  the  line  of  Shakspeare,  and  was  less  sinned  against 
than  sinning — or,  at  least,  that  he  had  been  the  active  mach- 
inator  of  his  fate,  not  the  passive  recipient  of  disappointment 
and  sorrow.  When  he  believed  himself  to  be  unobserved, 
his  face  worked  with  a  thousand  contending  emotions,  fiery 
glances  shot  from  his  eyes — he  appeared  to  wince  from  sud- 
den anguish — to  be  transported  by  a  rage  that  changed  his 
beauty  into  utter  deformity  :  was  he  spoken  to,  all  these  to- 
kens vanished  on  the  instant — dignified,  calm,  and  even 
courteous  ;  though  cold,  he  would  persuade  those  whom  he 
addressed  that  he  was  one  of  themselves — and  not  a  being 
transported  by  his  own  passions  and  actions  into  a  sphere 
which  every  other  human  being  would  have  trembled  to  ap- 
proach. A  superficial  observer  had  pronounced  him  a  good 
fellow,  though  a  little  too  stately — a  wise  man  had  been 
pleased  by  the  intelligence  and  information  he  displayed — 
the  variety  of  his  powers,  and  the  ease  with  which  he 
brought  forward  the  stores  of  his  intellect  to  enlighten  any 
topic  of  discourse.  An  independent  and  a  gallant  spirit  he 
surely  had — what,  then,  had  touched  it  with  destruction — 
shaken  it  to  ruin,  and  made  him,  while  yet  so  young,  abhor- 
rent ev-en  to  himself? 

Such  is  an  outline  of  the  stranger  of  Treby ;  and  his  ac- 
tions were  in  conformity  with  the  i\\  ongruities  of  his  ap- 


18  FALKNER 

pearance — outwardly  unemployed  and  tranquil ;  inwardly 
torn  by  throes  of  the  most  tempestuous  and  agonizing  feel- 
ings. After  landing  he  had  strolled  away,  and  was  soon 
out  of  sight ;  nor  did  he  return  till  night,  when  he  looked 
fatigued  and  depressed.  For  form's  sake — or  for  the  sake 
of  the  bill  at  the  inn — he  allowed  food  to  be  placed  before 
him ;  but  he  neither  ate  nor  drank — soon  he  hurried  to  the 
solitude  of  his  chamber — not  to  bed — he  paced  the  room 
for  some  hours ;  but  as  soon  as  all  was  still — when  his 
watch  and  the  quiet  stars  told  him  that  it  was  midnight,  he 
left  the  house — he  wandered  down  to  the  beach — he  threw 
himself  upon  the  sands — and  then  again  he  started  up  and 
strode  along  the  verge  of  the  tide — and  then  sitting  down, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  remained  motionless  : 
early  dawn  found  him  thus — but,  on  the  first  appearance  of 
a  fisherman,  he  left  the  neighbourhood  of  the  village,  nor  re- 
turned till  the  afternoon — and  now,  when  food  was  placed 
before  him,  he  ate  like  one  half  famished  ;  but  after  the 
keen  sensation  of  extreme  hunger  was  satisfied,  he  left  the 
table  and  retired  to  his  own  room. 

Taking  a  case  of  pistols  from  his  portmanteau,  he  ex- 
amined the  weapons  with  care,  and,  putting  tliem  in  his 
pocket,  walked  out  upon  the  sands.  The  sun  was  fast  de- 
scending in  the  sky,  and  he  looked,  with  varying  glances, 
at  it  and  at  the  blue  sea,  which  slumbered  peacefully,  giv- 
ing forth  scarcely  any  sound  as  it  receded  from  the  shore. 
Now  he  seemed  wistful — now  impatient — now  struck  by 
bitterer  pangs,  that  caused  drops  of  agony  to  gather  on  his 
brow.  He  spoke  no  word ;  but  these  were  the  thoughts 
that  hovered,  though  unexpressed,  upon  his  lips  :  "  Another 
day !  Another  sun !  Oh,  never,  never  more  for  me  shall 
day  or  sun  exist.  Coward !  Why  fear  to  die  \  And  do  I 
fear  ■?  No  !  no  !  I  fear  nothing  but  this  pain — this  unutter- 
able anguish — this  image  of  fell  despair !  If  I  could  feel 
secure  that  memory  Avould  cease  Avhen  my  brain  lies  scat- 
tered on  the  earth,  I  should  again  feel  joy  before  I  die. 
Yet  that  is  false.  While  I  live,  and  memory  lives,  and  the 
knowledge  of  my  crime  still  creeps  through  every  particle 
of  my  frame,  I  have  a  hell  around  me,  even  to  the  last  pul- 
sation !  For  ever  and  for  ever  I  see  her,  lost  and  dead  at 
my  feet — I  the  cause — the  murderer !  My  death  shall 
atone.  And  yet  even  in  death  the  curse  is  on  me — I  can- 
not give  back  the  breath  of  life  to  her  sweet  pale  lips  !  Oh 
fool !  Oh  villain  !  Haste  to  tlie  last  act ;  linger  no  more, 
2est  you  grow  mad,  and  fetters  and  stripes  become  your 
fitter  punishment  than  the  death  you  covet !"' 

"Yet" — after  a  pause,  his  thoughts  thus  continued: — 
"  not  here,  nor  now  :  there  must  be  darkness  on  the  earth 
before  the  deed  is  done !     Hasten  and  hide  thyself,  oh  sun! 


FALKNER.  19 

Thou  wilt  never  be  cursed  by  tlie  siglit  of  my  living  form 
again !" 

Thus  did  the  transport  of  passion  embrace  the  universe 
in  its  grasp ;  and  the  very  sunlight  seemed  to  have  a  pulse 
responsive  to  his  own.  The  bright  orb  sunk  lower;  and 
the  little  western  promontor}^  with  its  crowning  spire,  was 
thrown  into  bold  relief  against  the  glowing  sky.  As  if  some 
new  idea  were  awakened,  the  stranger  proceeded  along  the 
sands,  towards  the  extremity  of  the  headland.  A  short 
time  before,  unobserved  by  him,  the  little  orphan  had 
tripped  along,  and,  scaling  the  cliff,  had  seated  herself,  as 
usual,  beside  her  mother's  grave. 

The  stranger  proceeded  slowly,  and  with  irregular  steps. 
He  was  waiting  till  darkness  should  blind  the  eyes  of  day, 
which  now  appeared  to  gaze  on  him  with  intolerable  scru- 
tiny, and  to  read  his  very  soul,  that  sickened  and  writhed 
M'ith  its  burden  of  sin  and  sorrow.  When  out  of  the  im- 
mediate neighbourhood  of  the  village,  he  threw  himself 
upon  a  fragment  of  rock,  and — he  could  not  be  said  to 
meditate — for  that  supposes  some  sort  of  voluntary  action 
of  the  mind — while  to  him  might  be  applied  the  figure  of 
the  poet,  who  represented  himself  as  hunted  by  his  own 
thoughts — pursued  by  memory,  and  torn  to  pieces,  as  Ac- 
taeon  by  his  own  hounds.  A  troop  of  horrid  recollections 
assailed  his  soul !  there  was  no  shelter,  no  escape  !  various 
passions,  by  turns,  fastened  themselves  upon  him — jeal- 
ousy, disappointed  love,  rage,  fear,  and,  last  and  worst,  re- 
morse and  despair.  No  bodily  torture,  invented  by  re-' 
vengeful  tyrant,  could  produce  agony  equal  to  that  which 
he  had  worked  out  for  his  own  mind.  His  better  nature, 
and  the  powers  of  his  intellect,  served  but  to  sharpen 
and  strike  deeper  the  pangs  of  unavailing  regret.  Fool ! 
He  had  foreseen  nothing  of  all  this !  He  had  fancied  that 
he  could  bend  the  course  of  fate  to  his  own  will ;  and  that 
to  desire  with  energy  was  to  ensure  success.  And  to  Avhat 
had  the  immutable  resolve  to  accomplish  his  ends  brought 
him']  She  was  dead — the  loveliest  and  best  of  created 
beings :  torn  from  the  affections  and  the  pleasures  of  life ! 
from  her  home,  her  child !  He  had  seen  her  stretched  dead 
at  his  feet :  he  had  heaped  the  earth  upon  her  cla5^-cold 
form  ;  and  he  the  cause  !  he  the  murderer  ! 

Stung  to  intolerable  anguish  by  these  ideas,  he  felt  hasti- 
ly for  his  pistols,  and  rising,  pursued  his  way.  Evening 
was  closing  in ;  yet  he  could  distinguish  the  winding  path 
of  the  cliff:  he  ascended,  opened  the  little  gate,  and  entered 
the  churchyard.  Oh!  how  he  envied  the  dead  I — the  guilt- 
less dead,  who  had  closed  their  eyes  on  this  mortal  scene, 
surrounded  by  weeping  friends,  cheered  by  reliu^ious  hope. 
All  that  imaged  innocence  and  repose  appeared  in  his  eyes 
so  beautiful  and  desirable :  and  how  could  ho,  the  criminal, 


20  FALKNER. 

hope  to  rest  like  one  of  these  1  A  star  or  two  came  out  in 
the  heavens  above,  and  the  church  spire  seemed  almost  to 
reach  them,  as  it  pointed  upward.  The  dim,  silent  sea  was 
spread  beneath  :  the  dead  slept  around :  scarcely  did  the 
tall  grass  bend  its  head  to  the  summer  air.  Soft,  balmy  peace 
possessed  the  scene.  With  what  thrilling  sensations  of  self- 
enjoyment  and  gratitude  to  the  Creator,  might  the  mind  at 
ease  drink  in  the  tranquil  loveliness  of  such  an  hour.  The 
stranger  felt  every  nerve  wakened  to  fresh  anguish.  His 
brow  contracted  convulsively.  "  Shall  I  ever  die !"  he 
cried  ;  "  will  not  the  dead  reject  me  !" 

He  looked  round  with  the  natural  instinct  that  leads  a 
human  being,  at  the  moment  of  dissolution,  to  withdraw 
into  a  cave  or  corner,  where  least  to  offend  the  eyes  of  the 
living  by  the  loathsome  form  of  death.  The  ivied  wall  and 
paling,  overhung  by  trees,  formed  a  nook,  whose  shadow  at 
that  hour  was  becoming  deep.  He  approached  the  spot ; 
for  a  moment  he  stood  looking  afar  :  he  knew  not  at  what ;" 
and  drew  forth  his  pistol,  cocked  it,  and  throwing  himself  on 
the  grassy  mound,  raised  the  mouth  of  the  fatal  instrument 
to  his  forehead.  "Oh,  go  away!  go  away  from  mamma!" 
were  words  that  might  have  met  his  ear,  but  that  every 
sense  was  absorbed.  As  he  drew  the  trigger,  his  arm  was 
pulled  ;  the  ball  whizzed  harmlessly  by  his  ear  :  but  the 
shock  of  the  sound,  the  unconsciousness  that  he  had  been 
touched  at  that  moment — the  belief  that  the  mortal  wound 
was  given,  made  him  fall  back;  and,  as  he  himself  said 
afterward,  he  fancied  that  he  had  uttered  the  scream  he 
heard,  which  had,  indeed,  proceeded  from  other  lips. 

In  a  few  seconds  he  recovered  himself.  Yet  so  had  he 
worked  up  his  mind  to  die ;  so  impossible  did  it  appear  that 
his  aim  should  fail  him,  that  in  those  few  seconds  the  earth 
and  all  belonging  to  it  had  passed  away — and  his  first  ex- 
clamation, as  he  started  up,  was,  "  Where  am  I  ■?"  Some- 
thing caught  his  gaze.;  a  httle  white  figure,  which  lay  but  a 
few  paces  distant,  and  two  eyes  that  gleamed  on  him — the 
horrible  thought  darted  into  "his  head — had  another  instead 
of  himself  been  the  victim?  and  he  exclaimed  in  agony, 
"  Gracious  God  !  who  are  you  ?— speak  !  What  have  I 
done  !"  Still  more  was  he  horror-struck  when  he  saw  that 
it  was  a  little  child  who  lay  before  him — he  raised  her— but 
her  eyes  had  glared  with  terror,  not  death;  she  did  not 
speak;  but  she  was  not  wounded,  and  he  endeavoured  to 
comfort  and  reassure  her,  till  she,  a  little  restored,  began 
to  cry  bitterly,  and  he  felt,  thankfully,  that  her  tears  were  a 
pledge  that  the  worst  consequences  of  her  fright  had  passed 
away.  He  hfted  her  from  the  groimd,  while  she,  in  the 
midst  of  her  tears,  tried  to  get  him  away  from  the  grave  he 
desecrated.  The  twilight  scarcely  showed  her  features; 
but  her  surpassing  fairness— her  lovely  countenance  and 


FALKNER.  21 

silken  hair,  so  betokened  a  child  of  love  and  care,  that  he 
was  more  the  surprised  to  find  her  alone,  at  that  hour,  in  the 
solitary  churchyard. 

He  soothed  her  gently,  and  asked,  "  How  came  you  here  ? 
what  could  you  be  doing  so  late  so  far  from  home  ?" 

"I  came  to  see  mamma." 

"  To  see  mamma !  Where  ?  how  ?  Your  mother  is  not 
here." 

"  Yes  she  is ;  mamma  is  there ;"  and  she  pointed  with 
her  little  finger  lo  the  grave. 

The  stranger  started  up — there  was  something  awful  in 
this  childish  simplicity  and  affection  :  he  tried  to  read  the 
inscription  on  the  stone  near — he  could  just  make  out  the 
name  of  Edwin  Raby.  "  That  is  not  your  mother's  grave," 
he  said. 

"  No  ;  papa  is  there — mamma  is  here,  next  to  him." 

The  man.  just  bent  on  self-destruction,  with  a  conscience 
burning  him  to  the  heart's  core — all  concentrated  in  the  om- 
nipotence of  his  own  sensations — shuddered  at  the  tale  of 
dereliction  and  misery  these  words  conveyed ;  he  looked 
eaj-nestly  on  the  child,  and  was  fascinated  by  her  angel  look  ; 
she  spoke  with  a  pretty  seriousness,  shaking  her  head,  her 
lips  trembling — her  large  eyes  shining  in  brimming  tears, 
"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  your  name  is  Raby  then  ?" 
-^  .-"-  Mamma  used  to  call  me  Baby,"  she  replied  ;  "  they  call 
me  Missy  at  home — my  name  is  Elizabeth." 

"  Well,  dear  Elizabeth,  let  me  take  you  home  ;  you  can- 
not stay  all  night  with  mamma." 

"Oh,  no;  I  was  just  going  home  when  you  frightened 
me." 

"  You  must  forget  that  ;  I  will  buy  you  a  doll  to  make  it 
up  again,  and  all  sorts  of  toys ;  see,  here  is  a  pretty  thing 
for  you  !"  and  he  took  the  chain  of  his  watch,  and  threw  it 
over  her  head  ;  he  wanted  so  to  distract  her  attention  as  to 
make  her  forget  what  had  passed,  and  not  to  tell  a  shocking 
story  when  she  got  home. 

"  But,"  she  said,  looking  up  into  his  face,  "  you  will  not 
be  so  naughty  again,  and  sit  down  wliere  mamma  is  lying." 

The  stranger  promised,  and  kissed  her ;  and,  taking  her 
hand,  they  walked  together  to  the  village ;  she  prattled  as 
she  went,  and  he  sometimes  listened  to  her  stories  of  mam- 
ma, and  answered,  and  sometimes  thought  with  Avonder  that 
he  still  lived — that  the  ocean's  tide  still  broke  at  his  feet — 
and  the  stars  still  shone  above  ;  he  felt  angry  and  impatient 
at  the  delay,  as  if  it  betokened  a  failing  of  pui-pose.  They 
walked  along  the  sands,  and  stopped  at  last  at  Mrs.  Baker's 
door.  She  was  standing  at  it,  and  exclaimed,  "  Here  you 
are.  Missy,  at  la.st !  What  have  you  been  doing  with  your- 
self ?  I  declare  I  was  quite  frightened — it  is  long  past  your 
bedtime." 


22  FALKNEir. 

"  You  must  not  scold  her,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  I  detained 
her.     But  why  do  you  let  her  go  out  alone  !  it  is  not  right." 

"  Lord,  sir,"  she  replied,  "  there  is  none  hereabouts  to  do 
her  a  harm — and  she  would  not  thank  me  if  I  kept  her  from 
going  to  see  her  mamma,  as  she  calls  it.  I  have  no  one  to 
spare  to  go  with  her ;  it's  hard  enough  on  me  to  keep  her 
on  charity,  as  I  do.  But" — and  her  voice  changed  as  a 
thought  flashed  across  her — "  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  per- 
haps you  come  for  Missy,  and  know  all  about  her.  I  am 
sure  I  have  done  all  I  can ;  it's  a  long  time  since  her  mam- 
ma died  ;  and,  but  for  me,  she  must  have  gone  to  the  par- 
ish. I  hope  you  will  judge  that  I  have  done  my  duty  to- 
.  wards  her." 

"  You  mistake,"  said  the  stranger  ;  "  I  know  nothing  of 
this  young  lady,  nor  of  her  parents,  who,  it  would  seem,  are 
both  dead.     Of  course  she  has  other  relations  !" 

"  That  she  has,  and  rich  ones  too,"  replied  Mrs.  Baker, 
"if  one  could  but  find  them  out.  It's  hard  upon  me,  who 
am  a  widow  woman,  with  four  children  of  my  own,  to  have 
other  people's  upon  me — very  hard,  sir,  as  you  must  allow ; 
and  often  1  think  that  I  cannot  answer  it  to  myself,  taking 
the  bread  from  my  own  children  and  grandchildren,  to  feed 
a  stranger.  But,  to  be  sure,  Missy  has  rich  relations,  and 
some  day  they  will  inquire  for  her ;  though  come  the  tenth 
of  next  August,  and  it's  a  year  since  her  mother  died,  and 
no  one  has  come  to  ask  good  or  bad  about  her,  or  Missy." 

"  Her  father  died  also  in  this  village  ?"  asked  the  stranger. 

"  True  enough,"  said  the  woman ;  "  both  father  and 
mother  died  in  this  very  house,  and  lie  up  in  the  churchyard 
yonder.  Come,  Missy,  don't  cry ;  that's  an  old  story  now, 
and  it's  no  use  fretting." 

The  poor  child,  who  had  hitherto  listened  in  simple  igno- 
rance, began  to  sob  at  this  mention  of  her  parents  ;  and  the 
stranger,  shocked  by  the  woman's  imfeelmg  tone,  said,  "  1 
should  like  to  hear  more  of  this  sad  story.  Pray  let  the 
poor  dear  child  be  put  to  bed,  and  then,  if  you  will  relate 
what  you  know  of  her  parents,  I  dare  say  I  can  give  you 
some  advice  to  enable  you  to  discover  her  relations,  and  re 
lieve  you  from  the  burden  of  her  maintenance." 

"  These  are  the  first  comfortable  words  I  have  heard  a 
long  time,"  said  Mrs.  Baker.  "  Come,  Missy,  Nancy  shall 
put  you  to  bed ;  it's  far  past  your  hour.  Don't  cry,  dear  ; 
this  kind  gentleman  will  take  you  along  with  him,  to  a  fine 
house,  among  grand  folks,  and  all  our  troubles  will  be  over. 
Be  pleased,  sir,  to  step  into  the  parlour,  and  I  will  show  you 
a  letter  of  the  lady,  and  tell  yon  all  I  know.  I  dare  say,  if 
you  are  going  to  London,  you  will  find  out  that  Missy  ought 
to  be  riding  in  her  coach  at  this  very  moment." 

This  was  a  golden  idea  of  Mrs.  Baker,  and,  in  truth,  went 
a  little  beyond  her  anticipations  ;  but  she  had  got  tired  of 


FALKNER.  23 

her  first  dreams  of  greatness,  and  feared  that,  in  sad  truth, 
the  little  orphan's  relations  would  entirely  disown  her;  but 
it  struck  her  that,  if  she  could  persuade  this  strange  gentle- 
man that  all  she  said  was  true,  he  might  be  induced  to  take 
the  little  girl  with  him  when  he  went  away,  and  undertake 
the  task  of  restoring  her  to  her  father's  family,  by  which 
means  she  at  least  would  be  released  from  all  further  care 
on  her  account : — "  Upon  this  hint  she  spake." 

She  related  how  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Raby  had  arrived  with 
their  almost  infant  child — death  already  streaked  the  brow 
of  the  dying  man ;  each  day  threatened  to  be  his  last ;  yet 
he  lived  on.  His  sufferings  were  great;  and  night  and  day 
his  wife  was  at  his  side,  waiting  on  him,  watching  each  turn 
of  his  eye,  each  change  of  complexion  or  of  pulse.  They 
were  poor,  and  had  only  one  servant,  hired  at  the  village 
soon  after  their  arrival,  when  Mrs.  Raby  found  herself  una- 
ble to  bestow  adequate  attention  on  both  husband  and  child  ; 
yet  she  did  so  much  as  evidently  to  cause  her  to  sink  be- 
neath her  too  great  exertions.  She  was  delicate  and  fragile 
in  appearance ;  but  she  never  owned  to  being  fatigued,  or 
relaxed  in  her  attentions.  Her  voice  was  always  attuned 
to  cheerfulness,  her  eyes  beaming  with  tenderness :  she, 
doubtless,  wept  in  secret ;  but  when  conversing  with  her 
husband,  or  playing  with  her  child,  a  natural  vivacity  ani- 
mated her,  that  looked  like  hope  ;  indeed,  it  was  certain 
that,  in  spite  of  every  fatal  symptom,  she  did  not  wholly 
despair.  When  her  husband  declared  himself  better,  and 
resumed  for  a  day  his  task  of  instructer  to  his  little  girl,  she 
believed  that  his  disorder  had  taken  a  favourable  turn,  and 
would  say,  "  Oh,  Mrs.  Baker,  please  God,  he  is  really  bet- 
ter ;  doctors  are  not  infallible ;  he  may  live  !"  And  as  she 
spoke,  her  eyes  swam  in  tears,  while  a  smile  lay  like  a  sun- 
beam on  her  features.  She  did  not  sink  till  her  husband 
died,  and  even  then  struggled,  both  with  her  grief  and  the 
wasting  malady  already  at  work  within  her,  with  a  fortitude 
a  mother  only  could  practise  ;  for  all  her  exertions  were  for 
her  dear  child  ;  and  she  could  smile  on  her,  a  wintry  smile 
— yet  sweet  as  if  warmed  by  seraphic  faith  and  love.  She 
lingered  thus,  hovering  on  the  very  limits  of  life  and  death; 
her  heart  warm  and  affectionate,  and  hoping,  and  full  of  fire 
to  the  end.  for  her  child's  sake,  while  she  herself  pined  for 
the  freedom  of  the  grave,  and  to  soar  from  the  cares  and 
sorrows  of  a  sordid  world,  to  the  heaven  already  open  to 
receive  her.  In  homely  phrase,  Mrs.  Baker  dwelt  upon 
this  touching  mixture  of  maternal  tenderness  and  soft  lan- 
guor, that  would  not  mourn  for  him  she  was  so  soon  to  join. 
The  woman  then  described  her  sudden  death,  and  placed 
the  fragment  of  her  last  letter  before  her  auditor. 

Deeply  interested,  tho  stranger  began  to  read,  when  sud- 


24  FALKNER. 

(leiily  he  became  ghastly  pale,  and,  trembling  all  over,  he 
asked,  "  To  whom  was  this  letter  addressed  1" 

"  Ah,  sir,"  replied  Mrs.  Baker,  "  would  that  I  could  tell, 
and  all  my  troubles  would  be  over.  Read  on,  sir,  and  you 
will  see  that  Mrs.  Raby  feels  sure  tliat  the  lady  would  have 
been  a  mother  to  poor  Missy ;  but  who,  or  where  she  is,  is 
past  all  my  guessing." 

The  stranger  strove  to  read  on  ;  but  violent  emotion,  and 
the  struggle  to  hide  what  he  felt,  hindered  him  from  taking 
in  the  meaning  of  a  single  word.  At  length  he  told  Mrs. 
Baker  that,  with  her  leave,  he  would  take  the  letter  away, 
and  read  it  at  his  leisure.  He  promised  her  his  aid  in  dis- 
covering Mrs.  Raby's  relatives,  and  assured  her  that  there 
would  be  small  difficulty  in  so  doing.  He  then  retired,  and 
Mrs.  Baker  exclaimed,  "  Please  God,  this  will  prove  a  good 
day's  work." 

A  voice  from  the  grave  had  spoken  to  the  stranger.  It 
was  not  the  dead  mother's  voice — she,  whatever  her  merits 
and  buffi -rings  had  been,  was  to  him  an  image  of  the  mind  only 
— he  had  never  known  her.  But  her  benefactress,  her  hope 
and  trust,  who  and  where  was  she  ?  Alithea !  the  warm- 
hearted friend — the  incomparable  mother !  She  to  whom 
all  hearts  in  distress  turned,  sure  of  relief— who  went  be- 
fore the  desires  of  the  necessitous ;  whose  generous  and 
free  spirit  made  her  emperess  of  all  hearts ;  who,  v/hile  she 
lived,  spread,  as  does  the  sun,  radiance  and  warmth  around 
— her  pulses  were  stilled;  her  powers  cribbed  up  in  the 
grave.  She  was  nothing  now  ;  and  he  had  reduced  to  this 
nothing  the  living  frame  of  this  glorious  being. 

The  stranger  read  the  letter  again  and  again;  again  he 
writhed,  as  her  namf^  appeared,  traced  by  her  mend's  cieli- 
cate  hand,  and  the  concluding  hope  seemed  the  acme  of  his 
despair.  She  would  indeed  have  been  a  mother  to  the  or- 
phan— he  remembered  expressions  thnt  told  him  that  she 
was  miking  diligent  inquiry  for  her  friend,  whose  luckless 
fate  hadnot  reached  her.  Yes,  it  was  his  Alithea  ;  he  could 
not  doubt.  His  ]  Fatal  mistake — his  she  had  never  been ; 
and  the  wild  resolve  to  make  her  such  had  ended  in  death 
and  ruin. 

The  stranger  had  taken  the  letter  to  his  inn — but  any  roof 
seemed  to  imprison  and  oppress  him — again  he  sought  re- 
lief in  the  open  air,  and  wandered  far  along  the  sands,  with 
the  speed  of  a  misery  that  strove  to  escape  from  itself. 
The  wliole  night  he  spent  thus — sometimes  climbing  the 
jagged  cliffs,  then  descending  to  the  beach,  and  throwing 
himself  his  length  upon  the  sands.  The  tide  ebbed  and 
flowed — the  roar  of  ocean  filled  the  lone  night  with  sound — 
the  owl  flapped  down  from  its  iiome  in  the  rock,  and  hooted. 
Hour  after  hour  passed — and,  driven  by  a  thousand  thoughts 
—tormented  by  the  direst  pangs  of  memory — still  the  strau- 


FALKNER.  25 

ger  hurried  along  the  winding  shores.  Morning  found  liim 
many  miles  from  Treby.  He  did  not  stop  till  the  appear- 
ance of  another  village  put  a  limit  to  solitude,  and  he  re- 
turned upon  his  steps. 

Those  who  could  guess  his  crime,  could  alone  divine  the 
combat  of  life  and  death  waging  in  his  heart.  He  had, 
through  accident  and  forgetfulness,  left  his  pistols  on  the 
table  of  his  chamber  at  the  inn,  or,  in  some  of  the  wildest 
of  the  paroxysms  of  despair,  they  had  ended  all.  To  die, 
he  fondly  hoped,  was  to  destroy  memory  and  to  defeat  re- 
morse ;  and  yet  there  arose  within  his  mind  that  feeling, 
mysterious  and  inexplicable  to  common  reason,  which  gen- 
erates a  desire  to  expiate  and  to  atone.  Should  he  be  the 
cause  of  good  to  the  friendless  orphan,  bequeathed  so  vainly 
to  his  victim,  would  not  that,  in  some  sort,  compensate  for 
his  crime  ]  Would  it  not  double  it  to  have  destroyed  her, 
and  also  the  good  of  which  she  would  have  been  the  author  1 
The  very  finger  of  God  pointed  to  this  act,  since  the  child's 
little  hand  had  arrested  his  arm  at  the  fatal  moment  when 
he  believed  that  no  interval  of  a  second's  duration  inter- 
vened between  him  and  the  grave.  Then,  to  aid  those  dim 
religious  misgivings,  came  the  manly  wish  to  protect  the 
oppressed  and  assist  the  helpless.  The  struggle  was  long 
and  terrible.  Now  he  made  up  his  mind  that  it  was  cow- 
ardice to  postpone  his  resolve — that  to  live  was  to  stamp 
himself  poltron  and  traitor.  And  now  again,  he  felt  that 
the  true  cowardice  was  to  die — to  fly  from  the  consequences 
of  his  actions,  and  the  burden  of  existence.  He  gazed  upon 
the  dim  waste  of  waters,  as  if  from  its  misty  skirt  some 
vision  would  arise  to  guide  or  to  command.  He  cast  his 
eyes  upward  to  interrogate  the  silent  stars — the  roaring  of 
the  tide  appeared  to  assume  an  inorganic  voice,  and  to  mur- 
mur hoarsely,  "  Live !  miserable  wretch  !  Dare  you  hope 
for  the  repose  which  your  victim  enjoys  1  Know  that  the 
guilty  are  unworthy  to  die — that  is  the  reward  of  iimo- 
cence  !" 

The  cool  air  of  morning  chilled  his  brow,  and  the  broad 
sun  arose  from  the  eastern  sea,  as,  pale  and  haggard,  he 
retrod  many  a  weary  step  towards  Treby.  He  was  faint 
and  weary.  He  had  resolved  to  live  yet  a  httle  longer — till 
he  had  fulfilled  some  portion  of  his  duly  towards  the  lovely 
orphan.  So  resolving,  he  felt  as  if  he  paid  a  part  of  the  pen- 
alty due.  A  soothing  feeling,  which  resembled  repentance, 
stole  over  his  heart,  already  rewarding  him.  How  swiftly 
and  audibly  does  the  inner  voice  of  our  nature  speak,  telling 
us  when  we  do  right.  Besides,  he  believed  that  to  live  was 
to  suffer ;  to  live,  therefore,  was  in  him  a  virtue ;  and  the 
exultation,  the  balmy  intoxication  which  always  follows  our 
first  attempt  to  execute  a  virtuous  resolve,  crept  over  him, 
and  elevated  his  spirits,  though  body  and  soul  were  alike 
3  B 


26  PALKNER. 

weary.  Arriving  at  Treby,  he  sought  his  bed.  He  slept 
peacefully ;  and  it  was  the  first  slumber  he  had  enjoyed  since 
he  had  torn  himself  from  the  spot  where  she  lay,  whom  he 
had  loved  so  truly,  even  to  the  death  to  which  he  had 
brought  her. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

Two  days  after,  the  strangei*  and  the  orphan  had  depart- 
ed for  London.  When  it  came  to  the  point  of  decision, 
Mrs.  Baker's  conscience  began  to  reproach  her ;  and  she 
doubted  the  propriety  of  intrusting  her  innocent  charge  to 
one  totally  unknown.  But  the  stranger  satisfied  her  doubts ; 
he  showed  her  papers  betokening  his  name  and  station,  as 
John  Falkner,  captain  in  the  native  cavalry  of  the  East  In- 
dia Company,  and  moreover  possessed  of  such  an  indepen- 
dence as  looked  like  wealth  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Baker,  and 
at  once  commanded  her  respect. 

His  own  care  was  to  collect  every  testimony  and  relic 
that  might  prove  the  identity  of  the  little  Elizabeth.  Her 
unfortunate  mother's  unfinished  letter — her  Bible  and  prayer- 
book — in  the  first  of  which  was  recorded  the  birth  of  her 
child — and  a  seal  (which  Mrs.  Baker's  prudence  had  saved, 
"when  her  avarice  caused  her  to  sell  the  watch),  with  Mr. 
Raby's  coat  of  arms  and  crest  engraved — a  small  desk, 
containing  a  few  immaterial  papers,  and  letters  from  stran- 
gers, addressed  to  Edwin  Raby — such  was  Elizabeth's  inher- 
itance. In  looking  over  the  desk,  Mr.  Falkner  found  a  lit- 
tle foreign  almanac,  embellished  with  prints,  and  fancifully 
bound — on  the  first  page  of  which  was  written,  in  a  wo- 
man's elegant  hand,  To  dearest  Isabella— from  her  A.  R. 

Had  Falkner  wanted  proof  as  to  the  reality  of  his  suspi- 
cions with  regard  to  the  friend  of  Mrs.  Raby,  here  was 
conviction ;  he  was  about  to  press  the  dear  handwriting  to 
his  lips,  when,  feeling  his  own  unworthiness,  he  shuddered 
through  every  limb,  and  thrusting  the  book  into  his  bosom, 
he,  by  a  strong  effort,  prevented  every  outward  mark  of  the 
thrilling  agony  which  the  sight  of  his  victim's  writing  occa- 
sioned. It  gave,  at  the  same  time,  fresh  firmness  to  his  re- 
solve to  do  all  that  was  requisite  to  restore  tlie  orphan 
daughter  of  her  friend  to  her  place  in  society.  She  was  as 
a  bequest,  left  him  by  whom  he  last  saw  pale  and  sense- 
less at  his  feet — who  had  been  tlie  dream  of  his  life  from 
boyhood,  and  was  now  the  phantom  to  haunt  him  witli 
remorse  to  his  latest  hour.  To  replace  the  dead  to  the 
lovely  child  was  impossible.     He  knew  the  incomparable 


FALKNER.  27 

virtues  of  her  to  whom  her  mother  bequeathed  her,  while 
every  thought  that  tended  to  recall  her  to  his  memory  was 
armed  witli  a  double  sting — regret  at  having  lost — horror 
at  the  fate  he  had  brought  upon  her. 

By  what  strange,  incalculable,  and  yet  sure  enchainment 
of  events  had  he  been  brought  to  supply  her  place  !  She 
was  dead — through  his  accursed  machinations  she  no  long- 
er formed  a  portion  of  the  breathing  world — how  marvel- 
lous that  he,  flying  from  memory  and  conscience,  resolved 
to  expiate  his  liaif  involuntary  guilt  by  his  own  death, 
should  have  landed  at  Treby !  Still  more  wondrous  were  the 
motives — hair  slight  in  appearance,  yet  on  which  so  vast  a 
Aveight  of  circumstance  hung — that  led  him  to  the  twilight 
churchyard,  and  had  made  Mrs.  Raby's  grave  the  scene  of 
the  projected  tragedy — which  had  brought  the  orphan  to 
guard  that  grave  from  pollution,  caused  her  to  stay  his  up- 
raised hand,  and  gained  for  herself  a  protector  by  the  very 
act. 

Whoever  lias  been  the  victim  of  a  tragic  event — who- 
ever has  experienced  life  and  hope — the  past  and  the  future 
wreckod  by  one  fatal  catastrophe,  must  be  at  once  dis- 
mayed and  awestruck  to  trace  the  secret  agency  of  a  thou- 
sand foregone,  disregarded,  and  trivial  events,  which  all  led 
to  the  deplored  end,  and  served,  as  it  were,  as  invisible 
m«shes  to  envelop  the  victim  in  the  fatal  net.  Had  the 
meanest  among  these  been  turned  aside,  the  progress  of  the 
destroying  destiny  had  been  stopped ;  but  there  is  no  voice 
to  cry  "  Hold !"  no  prophesying  eye  to  discern  the  unborn 
event — and  the  future  inherits  its  whole  portion  of  wo. 

Awed  by  the  mysteries  that  encompassed  and  directed 
his  steps,  which  used  no  agency  except  the  unseen,  but  not 
unfclt,  power  which  surrounds  us  with  motive  as  with  an 
atmosphere,  Falkner  yielded  his  hitherto  unbending  mind 
to  control.  He  was  satisfied  to  be  led,  and  not  to  com- 
mand ;  his  impatient  spirit  wondered  at  this  new  docility, 
while  yet  he  felt  some  slight  self-satisfaction  steal  over 
him ;  and  the  prospect  of  being  useful  to  the  helpless  little 
being  who  stood  before  him,  weak  in  all  except  her  irresist- 
ible claim  to  his  aid,  imparted  such  pleasure  as  he  was  sur- 
prised to  feel. 

Once  again  he  visited  the  churchyard  of  Treby,  accom- 
panied by  the  orphan.  She  was  loath  to  quit  the  spot — she 
could  with  difficulty  consent  to  leave  mamma.  But  Mrs. 
Baker  had  made  free  use  of  a  grown-up  person's  much 
abused  privilege  of  deceit,  and  told  her  lies  in  abundance ; 
sometimes  promising  that  she  should  soon  return ;  some- 
times assuring  her  that  she  would  find  her  mother  alive  and 
well  at  the  grand  place  wliithcr  she  was  going  :  yet,  despite  • 
the  fallacious  hopes,  she  cried  and  sobbed  bitterly  during 
her  last  visits  to  her  parents'  graves.      Falkner  tried  to 


28  FALKNER. 

sooth  her,  saying,  "  "We  must  leave  papa  and  mamma,  dear- 
est ;  God  has  taken  them  from  3^011 ;  but  I  will  be  a  new- 
papa  to  you." 

The  child  raised  her  head,  which  she  had  buried  in  his 
breast,  and  in  infantine  dialect  and  accent  said,  "  Will  you 
he  good  to  her,  and  love  Baby,  as  papa  did  V 

"  Yes,  dearest  child,  I  promise  always  to  love  you  :  will 
you  love  me,  and  call  me  your  papa!" 

"  Papa,  dear  papa,"  she  cried,  chnging  round  his  neck — 
"  my  new,  good  papa  !"  And  then,  whispering  in  his  ear, 
she  softly,  but  seriously, added,  "I  can't  have  a  new  mam- 
ma— I  won't  have  any  but  my  own  mamma." 

"  No,  pretty  one,"  said  Falkner,  with  a  sigh,  "  you  will 
never  have  another  mamma ;  she  is  gone  who  would  have 
been  a  second  mother,  and  you  are  wholly  orphaned." 

An  hour  after  they  were  on  the  road  to  London ;  and, 
full  of  engrossing  and  torturing  thoughts  as  Falkner  was, 
still  he  was  called  out  of  himself,  and  forced  to  admire  the 
winning  ways,  the  enchanting  innocence  and  loveliness  of 
his  little  charge.  We  human  beings  are  so  unlike  one  to 
the  other,  that  it  is  often  difficult  to  make  one  person  un- 
derstand that  there  is  any  force  in  an  impulse  which  is  om- 
nipotent with  another.  Children,  to  some,  are  mere  ani- 
mals, unendued  with  instinct,  troublesome,  and  unsightly — 
with  others  they  possess  a  charm  that  reaches  to  the  heart's 
core,  and  stirs  the  purest  and  most  generous  portions  of  our 
nature.  Falkner  had  always  loved  children.  In  the  Indian 
wilds,  which  for  many  years  he  had  inhabited,  the  sight  of 
^  a  young  native  mother  with  her  babe  had  moved  him  to  en-, 
vious  tears.  The  fair,  fragile  offspring  of  European  women, 
with  blooming  faces  and  golden  hair,  had  often  attracted 
him  to  bestow  kind  offices  on  parents  whom  otherwise  he 
would  have  disregarded  ;  the  fiery  passions  of  his  own  heart 
caused  him  to  feel  a  soothing  repose  while  watching  the 
innocent  gambols  of  childhood,  while  his  natural  energy, 
which  scarcely  ever  found  suflicient  scope  for  exercise,  led 
him  to  delight  in  protecting  the  distressed.  If  the  mere 
chance  spectacle  of  infant  helplessness  was  wont  to  excite 
his  sympathy,  this  sentiment,  by  the  natural  Avorkings  of 
the  human  heart,  became  far  more  lively  when  so  beautiful 
and  perfect  a  creature  as  Elizabeth  Raby  was  thrown  upon 
his  protection.  No  one  could  have  regarded  her  unmoved  ; 
her  silver-toned  laugh  went  to  the  heart ;  her  alternately 
serious  or  gay  looks,  each  emanating  from  the  spirit  of  love  ; 
her  caresses,  her  little  words  of  endearment ;  the  soft  pres- 
sure of  her  tiny  hand  and  warm  rosy  lips — were  all  as 
charming  as  beauty  and  the  absence  of  guile  could  make 
them.  And  he,  the  miserable  man,  was  charmed,  and  pit- 
ied the  mother  who  had  been  forced  to  desert  so  sweet  a 
flower — leaving  to  the  bleak  elements  a  blossom  which  it 


FALKNER.  S9 

had  been  paradise  for  lier  to  have  cherished  and  sheltered 
in  her  own  bosom  for  ever. 

At  each  moment  Falkner  became  more  enchanted  with 
his  companion.  Sometimes  they  got  out  of  the  chaise  to 
walk  up  a  hill ;  then,  taking  the  child  in  his  arms,  he  pluck- 
ed flowers  for  her  from  the  hedges,  or  she  ran  on  before 
and  gathered  them  for  herself — now  pulling  ineffectually  at 
some  stubborn  parasite — now  pricking  herself  with  brier, 
when  his  help  was  necessary  to  assist  and  make  all  well 
again.  When  again  in  the  carriage  she  climbed  on  his 
knee  and  stuck  the  flowers  in  his  hair,  "  to  make  papa  fine  ;" 
and  as  trifles  aff"ect  the  mind  when  rendered  sensitive  by 
suffering,  so  was  he  moved  by  her  trying  to  remove  the 
thorns  of  the  wild  roses  before  she  decorated  him  with 
them ;  at  other  times  she  twisted  them  among  her  own  ring- 
lets, and  laughed  to  see  herself  mirrored  in  the  front  glasses 
of  the  chaise.  Sometimes  her  mood  changed,  and  she  prat- 
tled seriously  about  "mamma."  Asked  if  he  did  not  think 
that  she  was  sorry  at  Baby's  going  so  far — far  away — or,  re- 
membering the  fanciful  talk  of  her  mother  when  her  father 
died,  she  asked  whether  she  were  not  following  them 
through  the  air.  As  evening  closed  in,  she  looked  out  to 
see  whether  she  could  not  perceive  her ;  "  I  cannot  hear 
her;  she  does  not  speak  to  me,"  she  said;  "perhaps  she  is 
a  long  way  off",  in  that  tiny  star ;  but  then  she  can  see  us — 
Are  you  there,  mamma]" 

Artlessness  and  beauty  are  more  truly  imaged  on  the  can- 
vass than  m  the  written  page.  Were  we  to  see  the  lovely 
orphan  thus  pictured  (and  Italian  artists,  and  our  own  Rey- 
nolds, have  painted  such)  with  uplifted  finger ;  her  large 
earnest  eyes  looking  inquiringly  and  tenderly  for  the  shad- 
owy form  of  her  mother,  as  she  might  fancy  it  descending 
towards  her  from  the  little  star  her  childish  fancy  singled 
out,  a  half  smile  on  her  lips,  contrasted  with  the  seriousness 
of  her  baby  brow — if  we  could  see  such  visibly  presented 
on  the  canvass,  the  world  would  crowd  round  to  admire. 
This  pen  but  feebly  traces  the  living  grace  of  the  httle  angel; 
but  it  was  before  Falkner;  it  stirred  him  to  pity  first,  and 
then  to  deeper  regret :  he  strained  the  child  to  his  breast, 
thinking,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  might  have  been  a  better  and  a  happy 
man !  False  Ahthea !  why,  through  your  inconstancy,  are 
such  joys  buried  for  ever  in  your  grave  !" 

A  few  minutes  after  and  the  little  girl  fell  asleep,  nestled 
in  his  arms.  Her  attitude  had  all  the  inartificial  grace  of 
childhood ;  her  face  hushed  to  repose,  yet  breathed  cf  af- 
fection. Falkner  turned  his  eyes  from  her  to  the  starry 
sky.  His  heart  swelled  impatiently — his  past  life  lay  as  a 
map  unrolled  before  him.  He  had  desired  a  peaceful  hap- 
piness— the  happiness  of  love.  His  fond  aspirations  had 
been  snakes  to  destroy  others,  and  to  sting  his  own  soul  to 
3» 


30  FALKNER. 

torture.  He  writhed  under  the  consciousness  of  the  re- 
morse and  horror  M'hich  were  henceforth  to  track  his  path 
of  hfe.  Yet,  even  while  he  shuddered,  he  felt  that  a  revo- 
lution was  operating  within  himself — he  no  longer  contem- 
plated suicide.  That  which  had  so  lately  appeared  a  mark 
of  courage  wore  now  the  guise  of  cowardice.  And  yet,  if 
he  were  to  live,  where  and  how  should  his  life  be  passed  T 
He  recoiled  from  the  solitude  of  the  heart  which  had  marked 
his  early  years — and  yet  he  felt  that  he  could  never  more 
link  himself  in  love  or  friendship  to  any. 

He  looked  upon  the  sleeping  child,  and  began  to  conjec- 
ture whether  he  might  not  find  in  her  the  solace  he  needed. 
Should  he  not  adopt  her,  mould  her  heart  to  affection,  teach 
her  to  lean  on  him  only,  be  all  the  w^orld  to  her,  while  her 
gentleness  and  caresses  would  give  life  a  charm — without 
which  it  were  vain  to  attempt  to  endure  existence  1 

He  reflected  what  Ehzabeth's  probable  fate  would  be  if 
he  restored  her  to  her  father's  family.  Personal  experience 
had  given  him  a  horror  for  the  forbidding,  ostentatious  kind- 
ness of  distant  relations.  That  hers  resembled  such  as  he 
had  known,  and  were  imperious  and  cold-hearted,  their  con- 
duct not  only  to  Mrs.  Raby,  but  previously  to  a  meritorious 
son,  did  not  permit  him  to  doubt.  If  he  made  the  oi-phan 
over  to  them,  their  luxuries  and  station  would  ill  stand  in- 
stead of  affection  and  heartfelt  kindness.  Soft,  delicate, 
and  fond,  she  would  pine  and  die.  With  him,  on  the  con- 
trary, she  would  be  happy — he  would  devote  himself  to  her 
— every  wish  gratified — her  gentle  disposition  carefully  cul- 
tivated— no  rebuke,  no  harshness ;  his  arms  ever  open  to 
receive  her  in  grief — his  hand  to  support  her  in  danger. 
Was  not  this  a  fate  her  mother  would  have  preferred  ■?  In 
bequeathing  her  to  her  friend,  she  showed  how  little  she 
wished  that  her  sweet  girl  should  pass  into  the  hands  of  her 
husband's  relations.  Could  he  not  replace  that  friend  of 
whom  he  had  so  cruelly  robbed  her — whose  loss  was  to  be 
attributed  to  him  alone  ! 

W^e  all  are  apt  to  think  that  when  we  discard  a  motive 
we  cure  a  fault,  and  foster  the  same  error  from  a  new  cause 
with  a  safe  conscience.  Tlius,  even  now,  aching  and  sore 
from  the  tortures  of  remorse  for  past  faults,  Falkner  in- 
dulged in  the  same  propensity,  Avhich,  apparently  innocent 
in  its  commencement,  had  led  to  fatal  results.  He  medi- 
tated doing  rather  what  he  wished  than  what  was  strictly 
just.  He  did  not  look  forward  to  the  evils  his  own  course 
involved,  while  he  saw  in  disproportionate  magnitude  those 
to  be  brought  about  if  he  gave  up  his  favourite  project. 
What  ills  might  arise  to  the  orphan  from  his  interweaving 
her  fate  with  his — he,  a  criminal,  in  act,  if  not  in  intention 
—who  might  be  called  upon  hereafter  to  answer  for  his 
deeds,  and  who  at  least  must  fly  and  hide  liimself— of  this 


FALENER.  31 

he  thought  not;  while  he- determined  that,  fostered  and 
guarded  by  him,  Elizabeth  must  be  happy — and,  under  the 
tutelage  of  her  relations,  she  would  become  the  vicliui  of 
hardhearted  neglect.  These  ideas  floated  somewhat  indis- 
tinctly in  his  mind — and  it  was  half  unconsciously  that  he 
was  building  from  them  a  fabric  for  tlie  future  as  deceitful 
as  it  was  alluring. 

After  several  days'  travelling,  Falkner  found  himself  with 
his  young  charge  in  London,  and  then  he  began  to  wonder 
wherefore  he  had  repaired  thither,  and  to  consider  that  he 
must  form  some  settled  scheme  for  the  future.  He  had  in 
England  neither  relation  nor  friend  Avhom  he  cared  for. 
Orphaned  at  an  early  age,  neglected  by  those  who  supported 
him,  at  least  as  far  as  the  affections  were  concerned,  he  had, 
even  in  boyliood,  known  intimately,  and  loved  but  one  per- 
son only — she  who  had  ruled  his  fate  to  this  hour — and  was 
now  among  the  dead.  Sent  to  India  in  early  youth,  he  had 
there  to  make  his  way  in  defiance  of  poverty,  of  want  of 
connexion,  of  his  own  overbearing  disposition — and  the 
sense  of  wrong  early  awakened  that  made  him  proud  and 
reserved.  At  last,  most  unexpectedly,  the  death  of  several 
relations  caused  the  family  estate  to  devolve  upon  him — and 
he  had  sold  his  commission  in  India  and  hastened  home — 
with  his  heart  so  set  upon  one  object,  that  he  scarcely  re- 
flected, or  reflected  only  to  congratulate  himself,  on  how 
alone  he  stood.  And  now  that  his  impetuosity  and  ill-regu- 
lated passions  had  driven  the  dear  object  of  all  his  thoughts 
to  destruction — still  he  was  glad  that  there  were  none  to 
question  him — none  to  wonder  at  his  resolves  ;  to  advise  or 
to  reproach. 

Still  a  plan  was  necessary.  The  very  act  of  his  life 
which  had  been  so  big  with  ruin  and  remorse  enjoined  some 
forethought.  It  was  probable  that  he  was  already  sus- 
pected, if  not  known.  Detection  and  punishment  in  a  shape 
most  loathsome  would  overtake  him,  did  he  not  shape  his 
measures  with  prudence  ;  and,  as  hate  as  well  as  love  had 
mixed  strongly  in  his  motives,  he  was  in  no  humour  to  give 
his  enemies  the  triumph  of  visiting  his  crime  on  him. 

What  is  written  in  glaring  character  in  our  own  conscious- 
ness we  believe  to  be  visible  to  the  whole  world ;  and  Falkner, 
after  arriving  in  London,  after  leaving  Elizabeth  at  an  hotel, 
and  walking  into  the  streets,  felt  as  if  discovery  was  already  on 
him,  when  he  was  accosted  by  an  acquaintance,  who  asked 
him  where  he  had  been — what  he  had  been  doing — andwliv 
he  was  looking  so  deusedly  ill.  He  stammered  some  reply, 
and  was  hastening  away,  when  his  friend,  passing  his  arm 
through  his,  said,  "  I  must  tell  you  the  strangest  occurrence 
I  ever  heard  of — I  have  just  parted  from  a  man — do  you  re- 
member a  Mr.  Neville,  whom  you  dined  with  at  my  house, 
when  last  in  town  ?" 


32  FALXNER. 

Falkner  at  this  moment  exercised  with  success  the 
wonderful  mastery  whicli  he  possessed  over  feature  and 
voice,  and  coldly  replied  that  he  did  remember. 

"  And  do  you  remember  our  conversation  after  he  left 
usV  said  his  friend,  "  and  my  praises  of  his  wife,  whom  I 
exalted  as  the  pattern  of  virtue  1  Who  can  know  woman !  I 
could  have  bet  any  sum  that  she  would  preserve  her  good 
name  to  the  end — and  she  has  eloped." 

"  Well !"  said  Falkner,  "  is  that  all  ]  is  that  the  most  won- 
derful circumstance  ever  heard  V 

"  Had  you  known  Mrs.  Neville,"  replied  his  companion, 
"  you  would  be  as  astonished  as  I  :  with  all  her  charms — 
all  her  vivacity — never  had  the  breath  of  scandal  reached 
her — she  seemed  one  of  those  whose  hearts,  though  warm, 
are  proof  against  the  attacks  of  love  ;  and  with  ardent  affec- 
tions yet  turn  away  from  passion,  superior  and  unharmed. 
Yet  she  has  eloped  with  a  lover — there  is  no  doubt  of  that 
fact,  for  he  was  seen — they  were  seen  going  off  together, 
and  she  has  not  been  heard  of  since." 

"  Did  Mr.  Neville  pursue  them  1"  asked  Falkner. 

"  He  is  even  now  in  full  pursuit — vowing  vengeance — 
more  enraged  than  I  ever  beheld  man.  Unfortunately,  he 
does  not  know  who  the  seducer  is ;  nor  have  the  fugitives 
yet  been  traced.  The  whole  affair  is  the  most  mysterious 
— a  lover  dropped  from  the  clouds — an  angel  of  virtue  sub- 
dued, almost  before  she  is  sought.  Still  they  must  be  found 
out — they  cannot  hide  themselves  for  ever." 

"  And  then  there  will  be  a  duel  to  the  death  V  asked 
Falkner,  in  the  same  icy  accents. 

"  No,"  replied  the  other ;  "  Mrs.  Neville  has  no  brother  to 
fight  for  her,  and  her  husband  breathes  law  only.  Whatever 
vengeance  the  law  will  afford,  that  he  will  use  to  the  utmost 
— he  is  too  angry  to  fight." 

"  The  poltron  !"  exclaimed  Falkner ;  "  and  thus  he  loses 
his  sole  chance  of  revenge." 

"  I  know  not  that,"  replied  his  companion  ;  "  he  has  formed 
a  thousand  schemes  of  chastisement  for  both  offenders, 
more  dread  than  the  field  of  honour — there  is,  to  be 
sure,  a  mean,  as  well  as  an  indignant  spirit  in  him,  that 
revels  rather  in  the  thought  of  inflicting  infamy  than  death. 
He  utters  a  thousand  mysterious  threats — I  do  not  see  ex- 
actly what  he  can  do — but  when  he  discovers  his  injurer,  as 
he  must  some  day — and  I  believe  there  are  letters  that  afford 
a  clew — he  will  wreak  all  that  a  savage,  and  yet  a  sordid 
desire  of  vengeance  can  suggest.  Poor  Mrs.  Neville  !  after 
all,  she  must  have  lived  a  sad  life  with  such  a  fellow !" 

"And  here  we  part,"  said  Falkner;  "  I  am  going  another 
way.  You  have  told  me  a  strange  story — it  will  be  curious 
to  mark  the  end.     Farewell !" 

Brave  to  rashness  as  Falkner  was,  yet  there  was  much  in 


FALKNER.  33 

what  he  had  just  heard  that  made  him  recoil,  and  ahnost 
tremble.  What  the  vengeance  was  that  Mr.  Neville  could 
take,  he  too  well  knew — and  he  resolved  to  defeat  it.  His 
plans,  before  vague,  were  formed  on  the  instant.  His  lip 
curled  with  a  disdainful  smile  when  he  recollected  what  his 
friend  had  said  of  the  mystery  that  hung  over  the  late  oc- 
currences— he  would  steep  them  all  in  tenfold  obscurity.  To 
grieve  for  the  past  was  futile,  or  rather,  nothing  he  could 
do  would  prevent  or  alleviate  the  piercing  regret  that  tor- 
tured him — but  that  need  not  influence  his  conduct.  To 
leave  his  arch  enemy  writhing  from  injury,  yet  powerless  to 
revenge  himself — blindly  cursing  he  knew  not  who,  and  re- 
moving the  object  of  his  curses  from  all  danger  of  being  hurt 
by  them,  Avas  an  image  not  devoid  of  satisfaction.  i\ctiiig 
in  conformity  with  these  ideas,  the  next  morning  saw  him 
on  the  road  to  Dover — Elizabeth  still  his  companion,  re- 
solved to  seek  oblivion  in  foreign  countries  and  far  climes — 
and  happy,  at  the  same  time,  to  have  her  with  him,  whose 
infantine  caresses  already  poured  balm  upon  his  rankling 
wounds. 


CHAPTER  V. 

Paris  was  the  next,  but  transient,  resting-place  of  the 
travellers.  Here  Falkner  made  such  arrangements  with  re- 
gard to  remittances  as  he  believed  would  best  ensure  his 
scheme  of  concealment.  He  laid  the  map  of  Europe  before 
him,  and  traced  a  course  with  his  pencil  somewhat  erratic, 
yet  not  without  a  plan.  Paris,  Hamburgh,  Stockholm,  St. 
Petersburgh,  Moscow,  Odessa,  Constantinople,  through 
Hungary  to  Vienna.  How  many  thousand  miles !  miles 
which,  while  he  traversed,  he  could  possess  his  soul  in  free- 
dom— fear  no  scrutiny — he  asked  no  insidious  questions. 
He  covdd  look  each  man  in  the  face,  and  none  trace  his 
crime  in  his  own. 

It  was  a  wild  scheme  to  make  so  young  a  child  as  Eliza- 
beth the  companion  of  these  devious  and  long  wanderings, 
yet  it  was  her  idea  that  shed  golden  rays  on  the  boundless 
prospect  he  contemplated.  He  could  not  have  undertaken 
this  long  journey  alone — memoiy  and  remorse  his  only 
companions.  He  was  not  one  of  those,  unfortunately, 
whom  a  bright  eye  and  kindly  smile  can  light  at  once  into  a 
flame — soon  burnt  out,  it  is  true,  but  warming  and  cheering, 
and  yet  harmless,  while  it  lasted.  He  could  not,  among 
strangers,  at  once  discern  the  points  to  admire,  and  make 
himself  the  companion  of  the  intelligent  and  good,  through 
B3 


34  FALKNER. 

a  sort  of  freemasonry  some  spirits  possess.  This  was  a 
great  defect  of  character.  He  was  proud  and  reserved.  His 
esteem  must  be  won — long  habits  of  intimacy  formed — his 
fastidious  taste  never  wounded  —  his  imagination  never 
balked ;  without  this  he  was  silent  and  wrapped  in  himself. 
All  his  life  he  had  cherished  a  secret  and  ardent  passion, 
beyond  whose  bounds  everything  was  steril  —  this  had 
changed  from  the  hopes  of  love  to  tlie  gnawing  pangs  of 
remorse — but  still  his  heart  fed  on  itself— and  unless  that 
was  interested,  and  by  the  force  of  affection  he  were  called 
out  of  himself,  he  must  be  miserable.  To  arrive  unwel- 
comed  at  an  inn — to  wander  through  unknown  streets  and 
cities  without  any  stimulus  of  interest  or  curiosity — to  tra- 
verse vast  tracts  of  country,  useless  to  others,  a  burden  to 
himself,  alone — this  would  have  been  intolerable.  But  Eliz- 
abeth was  the  cure  ;  she  was  the  animating  soul  of  his  pro- 
ject ;  her  smiles — her  caresses — the  knowledge  that  he  ben- 
efited her,  was  the  life-blood  of  his  design.  He  indulged, 
with  a  sort  of  rapture,  in  the  feeling  that  he  loved,  and  was 
beloved  by  an  angel  of  innocence,  who  grew  each  day  into 
a  creature  endowed  witii  intelligence,  sympathies,  hopes, 
fears,  and  affections — all  individually  her  own,  and  yet  all 
modelled  hy  him — centred  in  him — to  whom  he  was  neces- 
sary— who  would  be  his ;  not,  like  the  vain  love  of  his  youth, 
only  in  imagination,  but  in  every  thought  and  sensation,  to 
the  end  of  time. 

Nor  did  he  intend  to  pursue  his  journey  in  such  a  way  as 
to  overtask  her  strength  or  injure  her  health.  He  cared  not 
how  much  time  elapsed  Before  its  completion.  It  would 
certainly  employ  years  ;  it  mattered  not  how  many.  When 
winter  rendered  travelliiig  painful,  he  could  take  up  his 
abode  in  a  metropolis  abounding  in  luxuries.  During  the 
summer  heats  he  might  fix  himself  in  some  villa,  where  the 
season  would  be  mitigated  to  pleasantness.  If  impelled  by 
a  capricious  predilection,  he  could  stay  for  months  in  any 
chance-selected  spot ;  but  his  home  was,  with  Elizabeth  be- 
side him,  in  his  travelling  carriage.  Perpetual  change  would 
baffle  pursuit  if  any  were  set  on  foot ;  while  the  restlessness 
of  his  life,  the  petty  annoyances  and  fleeting  pleasures  of  a 
traveller's  existence,  would  serve  to  occupy  his  mind,  and 
prevent  its  being  mastered  by  those  passions  to  which  one 
victim  had  been  immolated,  and  which  rendered  the  rem- 
nant of  his  days  loathsome  to  himself.  "  I  have  determined 
to  live,"  he  thought,  "  and  I  must  therefore  ensure  the  means 
of  life.  I  must  adopt  a  method  by  which  I  can  secure  for 
each  day  that  stock  of  patience  which  is  necessary  to  lead 
me  to  the  end  of  it.  In  the  plan  I  have  laid  dowai,  eveiy 
day  will  have  a  task  to  be  fulfilled,  and  while  I  employ  my- 
self in  executing  it,  I  need  look  neither  before  nor  behind ; 
and  each  day  added  thus,  one  by  one,  to  one  another,  will 


FALKNER.  35 

form  months  and  years,  and  I  shall  grow  old  travelling  post 
over  Europe." 

His  resolution  made,  he  was  eager  to  enter  on  his  travels, 
which,  singular  to  say,  he  performed  even  in  the  very  man- 
ner he  had  determined ;  for  the  slight  changes  in  the  exact 
route,  introduced  afterward  from  motives  of  convenience 
or  pleasure,  might  be  deemed  rather  as  in  accordance  with, 
than  deviating  from,  his  original  project. 

Falkner  was  not  a  man  ordinarily  met  with.  He  pos- 
sessed wild  and  fierce  passions,  joined  to  extreme  sensibil- 
ity, beneficence,  and  generosity.  His  boyhood  had  been 
rendered  miserable  by  the  violence  of  a  temper  roused  to 
anger  even  from  trifles.  Collision  with  his  fellow-creatures, 
a  sense  of  dignity  with  his  equals,  and  of  justice  towards  his 
inferiors,  had  subdued  this ;  still  his  blood  was  apt  to  boil 
when  roused  by  any  impediment  to  his  designs,  or  the  sight 
of  injury  towards  others,  and  it  was  with  great  difficulty  that 
he  kept  down  the  outward  marks  of  indignation  or  contempt. 
To  tame  the  vehemence  of  his  disposition,  he  had  endeav- 
oured to  shackle  his  imagination,  and  to  cultivate  his  reason 
— and  perhaps  he  fancied  that  he  succeeded  best  when,  in 
fact,  he  entirely  failed.  As  now,  when  he  took  the  little 
orphan  with  him  away  from  all  the  ties  of  blood — the  man- 
ners and  customs  of  her  country — from  the  disciphne  of 
regular  education,  and  the  society  of  others  of  her  sex — had 
not  Elizabeth  been  the  creature  she  was,  with  a  character 
not  to  be  disharmonized  by  any  circumstances,  this  had  been 
a  fearful  experiment. 

Yet  he  fondly  hoped  to  derive  happiness  from  it.  Trav- 
ersing long  tracts  of  countiy  with  vast  speed,  cut  off  from 
intercourse  with  every  one  but  her,  and  she  endearing  her- 
self more,  daily,  by  extreme  sweetness  of  disposition,  he 
began  almost  to  forget  the  worm  gnawing  at  his  bosom ; 
and,  feeling  himself  free,  to  fancy  himself  happy.  Unfor- 
tunately, it  was  not  so  :  he  had  passed  the  fatal  Rubicon, 
placed  by  conscience  between  innocence  and  crime ;  and 
however  much  he  might  for  a  time  deaden  the  stings  of 
feeling  or  baffle  the  inevitable  punishment  hereafter  to  arise 
from  the  consequences  of  his  guilt,  still  there  was  a  burden 
on  his  soul  that  took  all  real  zest  from  life,  and  made  his 
attempts  at  enjoyment  more  like  the  experiments  of  a  phy- 
sician to  dissipate  sickness,  than  the  buoyant  sensations  of 
one  in  health. 

But  then  he  thought  not  of  himself — he  did  not  live  in 
himself,  but  in  the  joyous  being  at  his  side.  Her  happiness 
was  exuberant.  She  might  be  compared  to  an  exotic,  late- 
ly pinched,  and  drooping  from  the  effects  of  the  wintry  air, 
transported  back,  in  the  first  opening  of  a  balmy  southern 
spring,  to  its  native  clime.  The  young  and  tender  green 
leaves  unfolded  themselves  in  the  pleasant  air;  blossoms 


36  FALKNER. 

appeared  among  the  foliage,  and  sweet  fruit  miglit  be  anti- 
cipated. Nor  was  it  only  the  kindness  of  her  protector  that 
endeared  him  to  her  :  much  of  the  warm  sentiment  of  affec- 
tion arose  from  their  singular  modes  of  life.  Had  they 
continued  at  a  fixed  residence,  in  town  or  country,  in  a 
civilized  land,  Elizabeth  had  seen  her  guardian  at  stated 
periods ;  have  now  and  then  taken  a  walk  with  him,  or 
gambolled  in  the  garden  at  his  side  ;  while,  for  the  chief 
part,  their  occupation  and  pursuits  being  different,  they  had 
been  little  together.  As  it  was,  they  were  never  apart  : 
side  by  side  in  a  travelling  carriage — now  arriving,  now  de- 
parting ;  now  visiting  the  objects  worthy  of  observation  in 
various  cities.  They  shared  in  all  the  pleasures  and  pains 
of  travel,  and  each  incident  called  forth  her  sense  of  depend- 
ance,  and  his  desire  to  protect ;  or,  changing  places,  even 
at  that  early  age,  she  soothed  his  impatience,  while  he  was 
beguiled  of  his  irritability  by  her  cheerful  voice  and  smiling 
face.  In  all  this,  Ehzabeth  felt  most  strongly  the  tie  that 
bound  them.  Sometimes  benighted;  sometimes  delayed 
by  swollen  rivers  ;  reduced  to  bear  together  the  miseries  of 
a  bad  inn,  or,  at  times,  of  no  inn  at  all ;  sometimes  in  dan- 
ger— often  worn  by  fatigue — Elizabeth  found  in  her  adopted 
parent  a  shelter,  a  support,  and  a  preserver.  Creeping  close 
to  him,  her  little  hand  clasped  in  his,  or  carried  in  his  arms, 
she  feared  nothing,  because  he  was  there.  During  storms 
at  sea,  he  had  placed  his  own  person  between  her  and  the 
bitter  violence  of  the  wind,  and  had  often  exposed  himself 
to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather  to  cover  her,  and  save 
her  from  wet  and  cold.  At  all  times  he  was  on  the  alert 
to  assist,  and  his  assistance  was  like  the  coming  of  a  su- 
perior being,  sufficient  to  save  her  from  harm,  and  inspire 
her  with  courage.  Such  circumstances  had,  perhaps,  made 
a  slight  impression  on  many  children ;  but  Elizabeth  had 
senses  and  sensibilities  so  delicately  strung,  as  to  be  true 
to  the  slightest  touch  of  harmony. 

She  had  not  forgotten  the  time  when,  neglected,  and  al- 
most in  rags,  she  only  heard  the  voice  of  complaint  or  chi- 
ding ;  when  she  crept  alone  over  the  sands  to  her  mother's 
grave,  and,  did  a  tempest  overtake  her,  there  was  none  to 
shield  or  be  of  comfort ;  she  remembered  little  accidents 
that  had  at  times  befallen  her,  Avhich,  to  her  infantine  feel- 
ings, seemed  mighty  dangers.  But  there  had  been  none, 
as  now,  to  pluck  her  from  peril  and  ensure  her  safety.  She 
recollected  when,  on  one  occasion,  a  thunder-storm  had 
overtaken  her  in  the  churchyard  ;  when,  hurryiyg  home, 
her  foot  slipped,  as  she  attempted  to  descend  the  wet  path 
of  the  cliff;  frightened,  she  clambered  up  again,  and,  re- 
turning home  by  tlic  upper  road,  had  lost  her  Avay,  and 
found  night. darkening  round  her — wet,  tired,  and  shivering 
with  fear  and  cold ;  and  then,  on  her  return,  her  welcome 


PALKNER.  3T 

had  been  a  scolding — well  meant,  perhaps,  but  vulgar,  loud, 
and  painful :  and  now  the  contrast  I  Her  wishes  guessed — 
her  thoughts  divined — ready  succour  and  perpetual  vigilance 
were  for  ever  close  at  hand;  and  all  this  accompanied  by  a 
gentleness,  kindness,  and  even  by  a  respect,  which  the  ar- 
dent yet  refined  feelings  of  her  protector  readily  bestowed. 
Thus  a  physical  gratitude — so  to  speak — sprung  up  in  her 
child's  heart,  a  precursor  to  the  sense  of  moral  obligation 
to  be  developed  in  after  years.  Every  hour  added  strength 
to  her  affection,  and  habit  generated  fidelity,  and  an  attach- 
ment not  to  be  shaken  by  any  circumstances. 

Nor  was  kindness  from  him  the  only  tie  between  them. 
Elizabeth  discerned  his  sadness,  and  tried  to  cheer  his 
gloom.  Now  and  then  the  fierceness  of  his  temper 
broke  forth  towards  others ;  but  she  was  never  terri- 
fied, and  grieved  for  the  object  of  his  indignation  ;  or  if 
she  felt  it  to  be  unjust,  she  pleaded  the  cause  of  the  in- 
jured, and,  by  her  caresses,  brought  him  back  to  himself. 
She  early  learned  the  power  she  had  over  him,  and  loved 
him  the  more  fondly  on  that  account.  Thus  there  existed 
a  perpetual  interchange  of  benefit — of  watchful  care — of 
mutual  forbearance — of  tender  pity  and  thankfulness.  If 
all  this  seems  beyond  the  orphan's  years,  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  peculiar  circumstances  develop  peculiar  facul- 
ties ;  and  that,  besides,  what  is  latent  does  not  the  less  ex- 
ist on  that  account.  Elizabeth  could  not  have  expressed, 
and  was,  indeed,  unconscious  of  the  train  of  feeling  here 
narrated.  It  was  the  microcosm  of  a  plant  folded  up  in  its 
germe.  Sometimes  looking  at  a  green,  unformed  bud,  we 
wonder  why  a  particular  texture  of  leaves  must  inevitably 
spring  from  it,  and  why  another  sort  of  plant  should  not 
shoot  out  from  the  dark  stem :  but,  as  the  tiny  leaflet  un- 
closes, it  is  there  in  all  its  peculiarity,  and  endowed  with 
all  the  especial  qualities  of  its  kind.  Thus  with  Elizabeth, 
however,  in  the  thoughtlessness  and  inexperience  of  child- 
hood, small  outwai'd  show  was  made  of  the  inner  sense ; 
yet  in  her  heart,  tenderness,  fidelity,  and  unshaken  truth 
were  folded  up,  to  be  developed  as  her  mind  gained  ideas, 
and  sensation  gradually  verged  into  sentiment. 

The  course  of  years,  also,  is  included  in  this  sketch. 
She  was  six  years  old  when  she  left  Paris — she  was  nearly 
ten  when,  after  many  wanderings,  and  a  vast  tract  of  coun- 
try overpassed,  they  arrived  at  Odessa.  There  had  always 
been  a  singular  mixture  of  childishness  and  reflection  in  her, 
and  this  continued  even  now.  As  far  as  her  own  pleasures 
were  concerned,  she  might  be  thought  behind  her  age  :  to 
chase  a  butterfly — to  hunt  for  a  flower — to  play  with  a  fa- 
vourite animal — to  listen  with  eagerness  to  the  wildest  fairy 
tales — such  were  her  pleasures ;  but  there  was  something 
more  as  she  watched  the  turns  of  countenance  in  him  she 
4 


38  FALKNER. 

named  her  father — adapted  herself  to  his  gloomy  or  commu- 
nicative mood — pressed  near  him  when  she  thought  he  was 
annoyed — and  restrained  every  appearance  of  discomfort 
when  he  was  distressed  by  her  being  exposed  to  fatigue  or 
the  inclement  sky. 

When  at  St.  Petersburgh  he  fell  ill.  she  never  left  his 
bedside  ;  and,  remembering  the  death  of  her  parents,  she 
•wasted  away  with  terror  and  grief  At  another  time,  in  a 
wild  district  of  Russia,  she  sickened  of  the  measles.  They 
were  obliged  to  take  refuge  in  a  miserable  hovel ;  and,  de- 
spite all  his  care,  the  want  of  medical  assistance  endangered 
her  life,  while  her  convalescence  Avas  rendered  tedious  and 
painful  by  the  absence  of  every  comfort.  Her  sweet  eyes 
grew  dim  ;  her  little  head  drooped.  No  mother  could  have 
attended  on  her  more  assiduously  than  Falkner ;  and  she 
long  after  remembered  his  sitting  by  her  in  the  night  to 
give  her  drink — her  pillow  smoothed  by  him — and,  when 
she  grew  a  little  better,  his  canying  her  in  his  arms  under  a 
shady  grove,  so  to  give  her  the  benefit  of  the  air,  in  a  man- 
ner that  w^ould  least  incommode  her.  These  incidents  were 
never  forgotten.  They  were  as  the  colour  and  fragrance 
to  the  rose — the  very  beauty  and  delight  of  both  their  hves. 
Faikner  felt  a  half  remorse  at  the  too  great  pleasure  he  de- 
rived from  her  society  ;  while  hers  was  a  sort  of  rapturous, 
thrilling  adoration,  that  dreamed  not  of  the  necessity  of  a 
check,  and  luxuriated  in  its  boundless  excess. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

It  was  late  in  the  autumn  when  the  travellers  arrived  at 
Odessa,  whence  they  were  to  embark  for  Constantinople, 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  which  city  they  intended  to  pass 
the  winter. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  Falkner  journeyed  in  the 
luxurious  and  troublesome  style  of  a  Milord  Anglais.  A 
caleche  was  his  only  carriage.  He  had  no  attendant  for 
himself,  and  was  often  obliged  to  change  the  woman  hired 
for  the  service  of  Elizabeth.  The  Parisian  with  whom  they 
commenced  their  journey  was  reduced  to  despair  by  the 
time  they  arrived  at  Hamburgh.  The  German  who  replaced 
her  was  dismissed  at  Slockliolm.  The  Swede  next  hired 
became  homesick  at  Moscov/,  and  they  arrived  at  Odessa 
without  any  servant.  Falkner  scarcely  knew  what  to  do, 
being  quite  tired  of  the  exactions,  caprices,  and  repinings 
of  each  expatriated  menial — yet  it  was  necessary  that  Eliz- 
abeth should  have  a  female  attendant ;  and,  ou  his  arrival 


PALKNER.  39 

at  Odessa,  he  immediately  set  on  foot  various  inquiries  to 
procure  one.  Several  presented  themselves,  who  proved 
wholly  unfit;  and  Falkner  was  made  angry  by  their  extor- 
tionate demands  and  total  incapacity. 

At  length  a  person  was  ushered  in  to  him,  who  looked, 
who  was,  English.  She  was  below  the  middle  stature — 
spare,  and  upright  in  figure,  with  a  composed  countenance, 
and  an  appearance  of  tidiness  and  quiet  that  was  quite  novel, 
and  by  no  means  unpleasing,  contrasted  with  the  animated 
gestures,  loud  voices,  and  exaggerated  protestations  of  the 
foreigners. 

"  I  hear,  sir,"  she  began,  "  that  you  are  inquiring  for  an 
attendant  to  wait  on  Miss  Falkner  during  year  journey  to 
Vienna :  1  should  be  very  glad  if  you  would  accept  my  ser- 
vices." 

"Are  you  a  lady's  maid  in  any  English  family  here!" 
asked  Falkner. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  continued  the  little  woman, 
primly,  "  1  am  a  governess.  I  lived  many  years  with  a 
Russian  lady  at  St.  Petersburgh ;  she  brought  me  here,  and 
is  gone  and  left  me." 

"  Indeed !"  exclaimed  Falkner ;  "  that  seems  a  very  unjust 
proceeding — how  did  it  happen  V 

"  On  our  arrival  at  Odessa,  sir,  the  lady,  who  had  no  such 
notion  before,  insisted  on  converting  me  to  her  church ;  and 
because  I  refused,  she  used  me,  I  may  say,  very  ill ;  and 
hiring  a  Greek  girl,  left  me  here  quite  destitute." 

"  It  seems  that  you  have  the  spirit  of  a  martyr,"  observed 
Falkner,  smiling. 

"  I  do  not  pretend  to  that,"  she  replied ;  "  but  I  w'as  born 
and  brought  up  a  Protestant ;  and  I  did  not  like  to  pretend 
to  believe  what  1  could  not." 

Falkner  was  pleased  with  the  answer,  and  looked  more 
scrutinizinglv  on  the  applicant.  She  was  not  ugly — but 
slightly  pitted  with  the  smallpox — and  with  insignificant 
features  ;  her  mouth  looked  obstinate — and  her  light  gray 
eyes,  though  very  quick  and  intelligent,  yet  from  their  small- 
ness,  and  the  lids  and  brows  being  injured  by  the  traces  of 
the  maladv,  did  not  redeem  her  countenance  from  an  entire- 
ly commonplace  appearance,  which  might  not  disgust,  but 
could  not  attract. 

"  Do  you  understand,"  asked  Falkner,  "  that  I  need  a  ser- 
vant, and  not  a  governess  ?  1  have  no  other  attendant  for 
my  daughter  ;  and  you  must  not  be  above  waiting  on  her  as 
she  has  been  accustomed." 

"  I  can  make  no  objection,"  she  replied ;  "  my  first  wish 
is  to  get  awav  from  this  place,  free  from  expense.  At  Vi- 
enna I  can  find  a  situation  such  as  I  have  been  accustomed 
to— now  I  shall  be  very  glad  to  reach  Germany  safely  in 
any  creditable  capacity— and  I  shall  be  grateful  to  you,  sir, 


40  FALKNER. 

if  you  do  not  consider  my  being  destitute  against  me,  but 
be  willing  to  help  a  country-woman  in  distress." 

There  was  a  simplicity,  though  a  hardiness  in  her  manner, 
and  an  entire  want  of  pretension  or  affectation  that  pleased 
Falkner.  He  inquired  concerning  her  abilities  as  a  govern- 
ess, and  began  to  feel  that  in  that  capacity  also  she  might 
be  useful  to  Elizabeth.  He  had  been  accustomed,  on  all 
convenient  occasions,  to  hire  a  profusion  of  masters  ;  but 
this  desultory  sort  of  teaching  did  not  inculcate  those  hab- 
its of  industry  and  daily  application  which  it  is  the  best  aim 
of  education  to  promote.  At  the  same  time  he  much  feared 
an  improper  female  companion  for  the  child,  and  had  suffered 
a  good  deal  of  anxiety  on  account  of  the  many  changes  he 
had  been  forced  to  make.  He  observed  the  lady  before  him 
narrowly — there  was  nothing  prepossessing,  but  all  seemed 
plain  and  unassuming ;  though  formal,  she  was  direct — her 
words  few — her  voice  quiet  and  low,  without  being  soft  or 
constrained.  He  asked  her  what  remuneration  she  would 
expect ;  she  said  that  her  present  aim  was  to  get  to  Vienna 
free  of  expense,  and  she  did  not  expect  much  beyond — she 
had  been  accustomed  to  receive  eighty  pounds  a  year  as 
governess,  but  as  she  was  to  serve  Miss  Falkner  as  maid, 
she  would  only  ask  twenty. 

"  But  as  I  wish  you  to  act  as  both,"  said  Falkner,  "  we 
must  join  the  two  sums,  and  I  will  pay  you  a  hundred." 

A  ray  of  pleasure  actually  for  a  second  illuminated  the 
little  woman's  face  :  while  with  an  unaltered  tone  of  voice 
she  repMed,  "  I  shall  be  very  thankful,  sir,  if  you  think 
proper." 

"  You  must,  liowever,  understand  our  conditions,"  said 
Falkner.  "  I  talk  of  Vienna — but  I  travel  for  my  pleasure, 
with  no  fixed  bourn  or  time.  I  am  not  going  direct  to 
Germany — 1  spend  tlie  winter  at  Constantinople.  It  may 
be  that  I  shall  linger  in  those  parts — it  may  be  that  from 
Greece  I  shall  cross  to  Italy.  You  must  not  insist  on  my 
taking  you  to  Vienna  :  it  is  enough  for  your  purpose,  I  sup- 
pose, if  you  reach  a  civilized  part  of  the  world,  and  are 
comfortably  situated,  till  you  find  some  other  family  going 
whither  you  desire." 

She  was  acquiescent.  She  insisted,  however,  with  much 
formality,  that  he  should  make  inquiries  concerning  her 
from  several  respectable  families  at  Odessa  ;  otherwise,  she 
said,  he  could  not  fitly  recommend  her  to  any  other  situa- 
tion. Falkner  complied.  Every  one  spoke  of  her  in  high 
terms,  lauding  her  integrity  and  kindness  of  heart.  "  Miss 
Jervis  is  the  best  creature  in  the  world,"  said  the  wife  of 
the  French  consul ;  "  only  she  is  English  to  the  core — so 
precise,  and  formal,  and  silent,  and  quiet,  and  cold.  No- 
thing can  persuade  her  to  do  what  she  does  not  think  right. 
After  being  so  shamefully  deserted,  she  might  have  lived  in 


FALKNER.  41 

my  house,  or  four  or  five  others,  doing  nothing ;  but  she 
chose  to  have  pupils,  and  to  earn  money  by  teaching.  This 
might  have  been  merely  for  the  sake  of  paying  for  her  jour- 
ney ;  but,  besides  this,  we  discovered  that  she  supports 
some  poor  relation  in  England,  and,  while  cast  away  here, 
she  still  remembered  and  sent  remittances  to  one  whom  she 
thought  in  want.  She  has  a  heart  of  gold,  though  it  does 
not  shine." 

Pleased  with  this  testimony,  Falkner  thought  himself  for- 
tunate in  securing  her  services,  at  the  same  time  that  he 
feared  he  should  find  her  presence  a  considerable  encum- 
brance. A  servant  was  a  cipher,  but  a  governess  must  re- 
ceive attention — she  was  an  equal,  who  would  perpetually 
form  a  third  with  him  and  Elizabeth.  His  reserve,  his  love 
of  independence,  and  his  regard  for  the  feelings  of  another, 
would  be  perpetually  at  war.  To  be  obliged  to  talk  when 
he  wished  to  be  silent ;  to  listen  to,  and  answer  frivolous 
remarks;  to  know  that  at  all  times  a  stranger  was  there — 
all  this  seemed  to  him  a  gigantic  evil;  but  it  vanish-ed  after 
a  few  days'  trial  of  their  new  companion's  qualities.  What- 
ever Miss  Jervis's  latent  virtues  might  be,  she  thought  that 
the  chief  among  them  was  to  be 

"  Content  to  dwell  in  decencies  for  ever" — 

her  ambition  was  to  be  unimpcachably  correct  in  conduct. 
It  a  little  jarred  with  her  notions  to  be  in  the  house  of  a 
single  gentleman — but  her  desolate  situation  at  Odessa  al- 
lowed her  no  choice ;  and  she  tried  to  counterbalance  the 
evil  by  seeing  as  little  of  her  employer  as  possible.  Brought 
«p  from  childhood  to  her  present  occupation,  she  was  mould- 
ed to  its  very  form  ;  and  her  thoughts  never  strayed  beyond 
her  theory  of  a  good  governess.  Her  methods  were  all 
straightforward — pointing  steadily  to  one  undisguised  aim 
— no  freak  of  imagination  ever  led  her  out  of  one  hard,  de- 
fined, unerratic  line.  She  had  no  pretension,  even  in  the 
innermost  recess  of  her  heart,  beyond  her  station.  To  be 
diligent  and  conscientious  in  her  task  of  teaching  was  the 
sole  virtue  to  which  she  pretended  ;  and,  possessed  of  much 
good  sense,  great  integritj-,  and  untiring  industry,  she  suc- 
ceeded beyond  what  could  have  been  expected  from  one 
apparently  so  insignificant  and  taciturn. 

She  was,  at  the  beginning,  limited  very  narrowly  in  the 
exercise  of  any  authority  over  her  pupil.  She  was  obliged, 
therefore,  to  exert  herself  in  winning  influence,  instead  of 
controlling  by  reprimands.  She  took  great  pains  to  excite 
Elizabeth  to  learn;  and  once  having  gained  her  consent  to 
apply  to  any  particular  study,  she  kept  her  to  it  with  pa- 
tience and  perseverance ;  and  the  very  zeal  and  diligence 
she  displayed  in  teaching  made  Elizabeth  ashamed  to  repay 
her  with  an  inattention  that  looked  like  ingratitude.    Soon, 


42  FALKNER. 

also,  curiosity  and  alove  of  knowledge  developed  themselves. 
Elizabeth's  mind  was  of  that  high  order  which  soon  found 
something  congenial  in  study.  The  acquirement  of  new 
ideas — the  sense  of  order,  and  afterward  of  power — awoke 
a  desire  for  improvement.  Falkner  was  a  man  of  no  com- 
mon intellect ;  but  his  education  had  been  desidtory ;  and 
he  had  never  lived  with  the  learned  and  well-informed.  His 
mind  was  strong  in  its  own  elements,  but  these  lay  scat- 
tered, and  somewhat  chaotic.  His  observation  was  keen, 
and  his  imagination  fervid;  but  it  was  inborn,  uncultivated, 
and  unenriched  by  any  vast  stores  of  reading.  He  was  the 
very  opposite  of  a  pedant.  INIiss  Jervis  was  much  of  the 
latter ;  but  the  two  served  to  form  Elizabeth  to  something 
better  than  either.  vShe  learned  from  Falkner  the  uses  of 
learning  :  from  Miss  Jervis  she  acquired  the  thoughts  and 
experience  of  other  men.  Like  all  young  and  ardent  minds, 
which  are  capable  of  enthusiasm,  she  found  infinite  dehght 
in  the  pages  of  ancient  history :  she  read  biography,  and 
speedily  found  models  for  herself,  whereby  she  measured 
her  own  thoughts  and  conduct,  rectifying  her  defects,  and 
aiming  at  that  honour  and  generosity  which  made  her  heart 
beat  and  cheeks  glow  when  narrated  of  others. 

There  was  another  very  prominent  distinction  between 
Falkner  and  the  governess  :  it  made  a  part  of  the  system  of 
the  latter  never  to  praise.  All  that  she  tasked  her  pupil  to 
do  was  a  duty — when  not  done  it  was  a  deplorable  fault — 
when  executed,  the  duty  was  fulfilled,  and  she  need  not  re- 
proach herself — that  was  all.  Falkner,  on  the  contrary, 
fond  and  eager,  soon  looked  upon  her  as  a  prodigy ;  and 
though  reserved,  as  far  as  his  own  emotions  were  concerned, 
he  made  no  secret  of  his  almost  adoration  of  Elizabeth. 
His  praise  was  enthusiastic — it  brought  tears  into  her  eyes 
— and  yet,  strange  to  say,  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  ever 
strived  so  eagerly,  or  felt  so  satisfied  with  it,  as  for  the  par- 
simonious expressions  of  bare  satisfaction  from  Miss  Jer- 
vis. They  excited  two  distinct  sensations.  She  loved  her 
protector  the  more  for  his  fervid  approbation — it  was  the 
crown  of  all  his  gifts — she  wept  sometimes  only  to  remem- 
ber his  ardent  expressions  of  approbation ;  but  Miss  Jervis  in- 
spired sclf-difndence,  and  with  it  a  stronger  desire  for  im- 
provement. Thus  the  sensibility  of  her  nature  was  culti- 
vated, while  her  conceit  was  checked ;  to  feel  that  to  be 
meritorious  with  Miss  Jervis  was  impossible — not  to  be  faulty 
was  an  ambitious  aim.  She  easily  discovered  that  affection 
rather  than  discernment  dictated  the  approbation  of  Falkner; 
and  loved  him  better,  but  did  not  prize  hereelf  the  more. 

He,  indeed,  was  transported  by  the  progress  she  made. 
Like  most  self-educated,  or  uneducated  men,  he  had  a  pro- 
digious respect  for  learning,  and  was  easily  deceived  into 
think'tisf  irrnch  of  whnt  wis  \rn\n  ■  he  fflt  f'la^M  \v^n  ha 


FALKNER.  '       4S 

found  Elizabeth  eager  to  recite  the  wonders  recorded  in  his- 
tory, and  to  dehneate  the  characters  of  ancient  heroes — 
narrating  their  achievements,  and  quoting  their  sayings. 
His  imagination  and  keen  spirit  of  observation  were,  at 
the  same  time,  of  the  utmost  use.  He  analyzed  with  dis- 
crimination the  actions  of  her  favourites — brought  the  ex- 
perience of  a  mind  full  of  passion  and  reflection  to  com- 
ment upon  every  subject,  and  taught  her  to  refer  each  max- 
im and  boasted  virtue  to  her  own  sentiments  and  situation; 
thus  to  form  a  store  of  principle  by  which  to  direct  her  fu- 
ture life. 

Nor  were  these  more  masculine  studies  the  only  lessons 
of  Miss  Jervis — needlework  entered  into  her  plan  of  educa- 
tion, as  well  as  the  careful  inculcation  of  habits  of  neat- 
ness and  order;  and  thus  Ehzabeth  escaped  for  ever  the 
danger  she  had  hitherto  run  of  wanting  those  feminine 
qualities  without  which  every  woman  must  be  unhappy — 
and,  to  a  certain  degree,  unsexed.  The  governess,  mean- 
while, was  the  most  unobtrusive  of  human  beings.  She 
never  showed  any  propensity  to  incommode  her  employer 
by  making  him  feel  her  presence.  Seated  in  a  corner  of  the 
carriage,  with  a  book  in  her  hand,  she  adopted  the  ghostly 
rule  of  never  speaking  except  when  spoken  to.  When 
stopping  at  inns,  or  when,  on  arriving  at  Constantinople, 
they  became  stationary,  she  was  even  less  obtrusive.  At 
first  Falkner  had  deemed  it  proper  to  ask  her  to  accompany 
them  in  their  excursions  and  drives  ;  but  she  was  so  alive 
to  the  impropriety  of  being  seen  with  a  gentleman,  with 
only  a  young  child  for  their  companion,  that  she  always  pre- 
ferred staying  at  home.  After  ranging  a  beautiful  land- 
scape, after  enjoying  the  breezes  of  heaven  and  the  sight  of 
the  finest  views  in  the  world,  when  Elizabeth  returned  she 
always  found  her  governess  sitting  in  tlie  same  place,  away 
from  the  window  (because,  when  in  London,  she  had  been 
told  that  it  was  not  proper  to  look  out  of  a  window),  even 
though  the  sublimest  objects  of  nature  were  spread  for  her 
view;  and  employed  on  needlework,  or  the  study  of  some 
language  that  might  hereafter  serve  to  raise  her  in  the  class 
of  governesses.  She  had  travelled  over  half  the  habitable 
globe,  and  part  of  the  uninhabited — but  she  had  never  di- 
verged from  the  prejudices  and  habits  of  home — no  gleam 
of  imagination  shed  its  golden  hue  over  her  drab-coloured 
mind  :  whatever  of  sensibility  existed  to  soften  or  dulcify, 
she  sedulously  hid ;  yet  such  was  her  serenity,  her  justice, 
her  trustworthiness,  and  total  absence  of  pretension,  that  it 
was  impossible  not  to  esteem,  and  almost  to  like  her. 

The  trio,  thus  diverse  in  disposition,  j'et,  by  the  force  of 
a  secret  harmony,  never  fell  into  discord.  ]\Iiss  Jervis  was 
valued,  and  by  Elizabeth  obeyed  in  all  that  concerned  her 
vocation — she  therefore  was  satisfied.     Falkner  felt  her  use. 


44  FALKNER. 

and  gladly  marked  the  good  effects  of  application  and  knowl- 
edge on  the  character  of  his  beloved  ward — it  was  the 
moulding  of  a  block  of  Parian  marble  into  a  muse ;  all 
corners — all  superfluous  surface — all  roughness  departed — 
the  intelligent,  noble  brow — the  serious,  inquiring  eye — the 
mouth — seat  of  sensibility — all  these  were  developed  with 
new  beauty,  as  animated  by  the  aspiring  soul  within.  Her 
gentleness  and  sweetness  increased  with  the  cultivation  of 
her  mind.  To  be  wise  and  good  was  her  ambition — partly 
to  please  her  beloved  father — partly  because  her  young 
mind  perceived  tlie  uses  and  beauty  of  knowledge. 

If  anything  could  have  cured  the  rankling  wounds  of 
Falkner's  mind,  it  was  the  excellence  of  the  young  Eliza- 
beth. Again  and  again  he  repeated  to  himself,  that,  brought 
\ip  among  the  worldly  and  cold,  her  noblest  qualities  would 
either  have  been  destroyed,  or  produced  misery.  In  con- 
tributing to  her  happiness  and  goodness,  he  hoped  to  make 
some  atonement  for  the  past.  There  were  many  periods 
when  remorse,  and  regret,  and  self-abhorrence  held  power- 
ful sway  over  him  :  he  was,  indeed,  during  the  larger  por- 
tion of  his  time,  in  the  fullest  sense  of  the  word — misera- 
ble. Yet  there  were  gleams  of  sunshine  he  had  never  hoped 
to  experience  again — and  he  readily  gave  way  to  this  re- 
lief; while  he  hoped  that  the  worst  of  his  pains  were  over. 

In  this  idea  he  was  egregiously  mistaken.  He  was  al- 
lowed to  repose  for  a  few  years.  But  the  cry  of  blood  was 
yet  unanswered — the  evil  he  had  committed  unatoned; 
though  they  did  not  approach  him,  the  consequences  of  his 
crime  were  full  of  venom  and  bitterness  to  others — and,  un- 
awares and  unexpectedly,  he  was  brought  to  view  and  feel 
the  wretchedness  of  which  he  was  the  sole  author. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Three  more  years  passed  thus  over  the  head  of  the  young 
Elizabeth ;  when,  during  the  warm  summer  months,  the 
wanderers  established  themselves  for  a  season  at  Baden. 
They  had  hitherto  lived  in  great  seclusion — and  Falkner 
continued  to  do  so  ;  but  he  was  not  sorry  to  find  his  adopted 
child  noticed  and  courted  by  various  noble  ladies,  who  were 
charmed  by  the  pure  complexion — the  golden  hair,  and 
spirited,  though    gentle,    manners  of  the   young   English 

gill- 
Elizabeth's  characteristic  was  an  enthusiastic  aflection- 
ateness — every  little  act  of  kindness  that  she  received  ex- 
cited her  gratitude :  she  felt  as  if  she  never  could — though 


FALKNER.  '  45 

she  would  constantly  endeavour — repay  the  vast  debt  she 
owed  her  benefactor.  She  loved  to  repass  in  her  mind 
those  sad  days  when,  under  the  care  of  the  sordid  Mrs. 
Baker,  she  ran  every  hazard  of  incurring  the  worst  evils  of 
poverty ;  ignorance  and  blunted  sensibility.  She  had  pre- 
served her  little  well-worn  shoes,  full  of  holes,  and  slipping 
from  her  feet,  as  a  sort  of  record  of  her  neglected  situation. 
She  remembered  how  her  hours  had  been  spent  loitering 
on  the  beach — sometimes  with  her  little  book,  from  which 
her  mother  had  taught  her — oftener  in  constructing  sand 
castles,  decorated  with  pebbles  and  broken  shells.  She  re- 
collected how  she  had  thus  built  an  imitation  of  the  church 
and  churchyard,  with  its  shady  corner  and  single  stone 
marking  two  graves :  she  remembered  the  vulgar,  loud 
voice  that  called  her  from  her  employment  with,  "  Come, 
Missy,  come  to  your  dinner!  The  Lord  help  me!  I  wonder 
when  anybody  else  will  give  you  a  dinner."  She  called  to 
mind  the  boasts  of  Mrs.  Baker's  children,  contrasting  their 
Sunday  frock  with  hers — the  smallest  portion  of  cake  given 
to  her  last,  and  with  a  taunt  that  made  her  little  heart  swell 
and  her  throat  feel  choked,  so  that  she  could  not  eat  it,  but 
scattered  it  to  the  birds — on  which  she  was  beat  for  being 
wasteful ;  all  this  was  contrasted  with  the  vigilance,  the 
tenderness,  the  respect  of  her  protector.  She  brooded  over 
these  thoughts  till  he  became  sacred  in  her  eyes ;  and, 
young  as  she  was,  her  heart  yearned  and  sickened  for  an 
occasion  to  demonstrate  the  deep  and  unutterable  thankful- 
ness that  possessed  her  soul. 

She  was  not  aware  of  the  services  she  rendered  him  in 
her  turn.  The  very  sight  of  her  was  the  dearest — almost 
the  only  joy  of  his  life.  Devoured  by  disappointment, 
gloom,  and  remorse,  he  found  no  relief  except  in  her  artless 
prattle,  or  t;;e  consciousness  of  the  good  he  did  her.  She 
perceived  this,  and  was  ever  on  the  alert  to  watch  his  mood, 
and  to  try  by  every  art  to  awaken  complacent  feelings.  She 
did  not  know,  it  is  true,  the  cause  of  his  sufferings — the 
fatal  memories  that  haunted  him  in  the  silence  of  night — 
and  threw  a  dusky  veil  over  the  radiance  of  day.  She  did 
not  see  the  fair,  reproachful  figure  that  was  often  before 
him  to  startle  and  appal — she  did  not  hear  the  shrieks  that 
rung  in  his  ears — nor  behold  her  floating  away,  lifeless, 
on  the  turbid  waves,  who,  but  a  little  before,  had  stood  in 
all  the  glow  of  life  and  beauty  before  him.  All  these  ago- 
nizing images  haunted  silently  his  miserable  soul,  and  Eliza- 
beth could  only  see  the  shadow  they  cast  over  him,  and 
strive  to  dissipate  it.  When  she  could  perceive  the  dark 
hour  passing  off,  chased  away  by  her  endeavours,  she  felt 
proud  and  happy.  And  when  he  told  her  that  she  had  saved 
his  life,  and  was  his  only  tie  to  it — that  she  alone  prevented 
his  perishing  miserably,  or  lingering  in  anguish  and  despair, 


46  FALKNER. 

her  fond  heart  swelled  with  rapture ;  and  what  soul-felt 
vows  she  made  to  remain  for  ever  beside  him,  and  pay  back 
to  the  last  the  incalculable  debt  she  owed !  If  it  be  true 
that  the  most  perfect  love  subsists  between  unequals — no 
more  entire  attachment  ever  existed  than  that  between  this 
man  of  sorrows  and  the  happy,  innocent  child.  He,  worn 
by  passion,  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  guilt,  his  brow  trenched 
by  the  struggles  of  many  years — she,  stepping  pure  and  free 
into  life,  innocent  as  an  angel,  animated  only  by  the  most 
disinterested  feelings.  The  link  between  them,  of  mutual 
benefit  and  mutual  interest,  had  been  cemented  by  time  and 
habit — by  each  waking  thought  and  nightly  dream.  What 
is  so  often  a  slothful,  unapparent  sense  of  parental  and  filial 
duty,  was  with  them  a  living,  active  spirit,  for  ever  mani- 
festing itself  in  some  new  form.  It  woke  with  them,  went 
abroad  with  them — attuned  the  voice,  and  shone  brightly  in 
the  eyes. 

It  is  a  singular  law  of  human  life,  that  the  past,  which  ap- 
parently no  longer  forms  a  portion  of  our  existence,  never 
dies  ;  new  shoots,  as  it  were,  spring  up  at  different  intervals 
and  places,  all  bearing  the  indelible  characteristics  of  the 
parent  stalk ;  the  circular  emblem  of  eternity  is  suggested 
by  this  meeting  and  recurrence  of  the  broken  ends  of  our 
life.  Falkner  had  been  many  years  absent  from  England. 
He  had  quitted  it  to  get  rid  of  the  consequences  of  an  act 
which  he  deeply  deplored,  but  which  he  did  not  wish  his 
enemies  to  have  the  triumph  of  avenging.  So  completely 
during  this  interval  had  he  been  cut  ofi"  from  any,  even  allu- 
sion to  the  past,  that  he  often  tried  to  deceive  himself  into 
thinking  it  a  dream  ;  often  into  the  persuasion  that,  tragical 
as  was  the  catastrophe  he  had  brought  about,  it  was  in  its 
result  for  the  best.  The  remembrance  of  the  young  and 
lovely  victim  lying  dead  at  his  feet  prevented  his  ever  being 
really  the  dupe  of  these  fond  deceits — but  still,  memory  and 
imagination  alone  ministered  to  remorse — it  was  brought 
home  to  him  by  none  of  the  effects  from  which  he  had 
separated  himself  by  a  vast  extent  of  sea  and  land. 

The  sight  of  the  English  at  Baden  was  exceedingly  painful 
to  him.  They  seemed  so  many  accusers  and  judges  ;  he 
sedulously  avoided  their  resorts,  and  turned  away  when  he 
saw  any  approach.  Yet  he  permitted  Ehzabeth  to  visit  among 
them,  and  heard  her  accounts  of  what  she  saw  and  heard 
even  with  pleasure  ;  for  every  word  showed  the  favourable 
impression  she  made,  and  the  simplicity  of  her  own  tastes 
and  feelings,  it  was  a  new  world  to  her,  to  find  herself 
talked  to,  praised,  and  caressed  by  decrepit,  painted,  but 
courteous  old  princesses,  dowagers,  and  all  the  tribe  of  Ger- 
man nobility  and  English  fashionable  wanderers.  She  was 
much  amused,  and  her  lively  descriptions  often  made  Falk- 


FALKNER.  47 

ner  smile,  and  pleased  him  by  proving  that  her  firm  and  un- 
sophisticated heart  was  not  to  be  deluded  by  adulation. 

Soon,  however,  she  became  more  interested  by  a  strange 
tale  she  brought  home  of  a  solitary  boy.  He  was  English 
— handsome  and  well-born — but  savnge,  and  secluded  to  a 
degree  that  admitted  of  no  attention  being  paid  him.  She 
heard  him  spoken  of  at  first  at  the  house  of  some  foreign- 
ers. They  entered  on  a  dissertation  on  the  peculiar  melan- 
choly of  the  English,  that  could  develop  itself  in  a  lad 
scarcely  sixteen.  He  was  a  misanthrope.  He  was  seen 
rambling  the  country  either  on  foot,  or  on  a  pony — but  he 
would  accept  no  invitations — shunned  the  very  aspect  of  his 
fellows — never  appearing,  by  any  chance,  in  the  frequented 
walks  about  the  baths.  Was  he  deaf  and  dumb  ?  Some  re- 
plied in  the  affirmative,  and  yet  this  opinion  gained  no  gen- 
eral belief.  Elizabeth  once  saw  him  at  a  little  distance, 
seated  under  a  wide-spreading  tree  in  a  little  dell — to  her 
he  seemed  more  handsome  than  anything  she  had  ever  seen, 
and  more  sad.  One  day  she  was  in  company  with  a  gentle- 
man, who,  she  was  told,  was  his  father ;  a  man  somewhat 
advanced  in  years — of  a  stern,  saturnine  aspect — whose 
smile  was  a  sneer,  and  who  spoke  of  his  only  child,  calling 
him  that  "  unhappy  boy,"  in  a  tone  that  bespoke  rather  con- 
tempt than  commiseration.  It  soon  became  rumoured  that 
he  was  somewhat  alienated  in  mind  through  the  ill-treat- 
ment of  his  parent — and  Elizabeth  could  almost  believe  this 
— she  was  so  struck  by  the  unfeeling  and  disagreeable  ap- 
pearance of  the  stranger. 

All  this  she  related  to  Falkner  with  peculiar  earnestness 
— "  If  you  could  only  see  him,"  she  said,  "  if  we  could  only 
get  him  here — we  would  cure  his  misery,  and  his  wicked 
father  should  no  longer  torment  him.  If  he  is  deranged,  he 
is  harmless,  and  I  am  sure  he  would  love  us.  It  is  too  sad 
to  see  one  so  gentle  and  so  beautiful  pining  away  without 
any  to  love  him." 

Falkner  smiled  at  the  desire  to  cure  every  evil  that 
crossed  her  path,  which  is  one  of  the  sweetest  illusions  of 
youth,  and  asked,  "  Has  he  no  mother  V 

"  No,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "  he  is  an  orphan  like  me,  and 
his  father  is  worse  than  dead,  as  he  is  so  inhuman.  Oh  ! 
how  I  wish  you  would  save  him  as  you  saved  me." 

"  That,  I  am  afraid,  would  be  out  of  my  power,"  said 
Falkner  ;  "  yet,  if  you  can  make  any  acquaintance  with  him, 
and  can  bring  him  here,  perhaps  we  may  discover  some 
method  of  serving  him." 

For  Falkner  had,  with  all  his  suflferings  and  his  faults, 
much  of  the  Don  Quixote  about  him,  and  never  heard  a 
storj'  of  oppression  without  forming  a  scheme  to  relieve  the 
victim.  On  this  permission,  Elizabeth  watched  for  some 
opportunity  to  become  acquainted  with  the  poor  boy.    But 


4b  falkner. 

it  was  vain.  Sometimes  she  saw  him  at  a  distance ;  but 
if  walking  in  the  same  path,  he  turned  off  as  soon  as  he  saw 
her  ;  or,  if  sitting  down,  he  got  up,  and  disappeared,  as  if  by- 
magic.  Miss  Jervis  thouglit  her  endeavours  by  no  means 
proper,  and  would  give  her  no  assistance.  "  If  any  lady  in- 
troduced him  to  you,"  she  said,  "  it  would  be  very  well ; 
but,  to  run  after  a  young  gentleman,  only  because  he  looks 
unhappy,  is  very  odd,  and  even  wrong." 

Still  Ehzabeth  persisted ;  she  argued,  that  she  did  not 
want  to  know  him  herself,  but  that  her  father  should  be  ac- 
quainted with  him — and  either  induce  his  father  to  treat  him 
better,  or  take  him  home  to  live  with  them. 

They  lived  at  some  distance  from  the  baths,  in  a  shady 
dell,  whose  sides,  a  little  farther  on,  were  broken  and  abrupt. 
One  afternoon  they  were  lingering  not  far  from  their  house, 
when  they  heard  a  noise  among  the  underwood  and  shrubs 
above  them,  as  if  some  one  was  breaking  his  way  through. 
"  It  is  he — look  !"  cried  Ehzabeih ;  and  there  emerged 
from  the  covert,  on  to  a  more  open  but  still  more  precipi- 
tous path,  the  youth  tliey  had  remarked  :  he  was  urging  his 
horse,  with  wilful  bhndness  to  danger,  down  a  declivity 
which  the  animal  was  unwilling  to  attempt.  Falkner  saw 
the  danger,  and  was  sure  that  the  boy  was  unaware  of  how 
steep  the  path  grew  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  He  called  out  to 
him,  but  the  lad  did  not  heed  his  voice — in  another  minute 
the  horse's  feet  slipped,  the  rider  was  thrown  over  his  head, 
and  the  animal  himself  rolled  over.  With  a  scream,  Eliza- 
beth sprang  to  the  side  of  the  fallen  youth,  but  he  rose  with- 
out any  appearance  of  great  injury,  or  any  complaint,  ev- 
idently displeased  at  being  observed  :  his  sullen  look  merged 
into  one  of  anxiety  as  he  approached  his  fallen  horse,  whom, 
together  with  Falkner,  he  assisted  to  rise — the  poor  thing 
had  fallen  on  a  sharp  poi-nt  of  a  rock,  and  his  side  was  cut 
and  bleeding.  The  lad  was  now  all  activity  ;  he  rushed  to 
the  stream  that  watered  the  little  dell  to  procure  water, 
which  he  brought  in  his  hat  to  wash  the  wound  ;  and  as  he  did 
so,  Elizabeth  remarked  to  her  father  that  he  used  only  one 
hand,  and  that  the  other  arm  was  surely  hurt.  Meanwhile 
Falkner  had  gazed  on  the  boy  with  a  mixture  of  admiration 
and  pain.  He  was  wondrously  handsome ;  large,  deep-set 
hazel  eyes,  shaded  by  long  dark  lashes — full  at  once  of  fire  and 
softness  ;  a  brow  of  extreme  beauty,  over  which  clustered 
a  profusion  of  chestnut-coloured  hair ;  an  oval  face  ;  a  per- 
son light  and  graceful  as  a  sculptured  image — all  this,  added 
to  an  expression  of  gloom  that  amounted  to  sullenness, 
with  which,  despite  the  extreme  refinement  of  his  features, 
a  certain  fierceness  even  was  mingled,  formed  a  study 
a  painter  would  have  selected  for  a  kind  of  ideal  poetic  sort 
of  bandit  stripling  ;  but,  besides  this,  there  was  resemblance, 
strange  and  thrilling,  that  struck  Falkner,  and  made  him  eye 


FALKNER.  4d 

him  with  a  painful  curiosity.  The  lad  spoke  with  fondness 
to  his  horse,  and  accepted  the  offer  made  that  it  should  be 
taken  to  Falkner's  stable,  and  looked  to  by  his  groom. 

"  And  you,  too,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  you  are  in  pain,  you 
are  hurt." 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  the  youth;  "let  me  see  that  I 
have  not  killed  this  poor  fellow — and  I  am  not  hurt  to 
signify." 

Elizabeth  felt  by  no  means  sure  of  this.  And  while  the 
horse  was  carefully  led  home,  and  his  wound  visited,  she 
sent  a  servant  off  for  a  surgeon,  believing,  in  her  own 
mind,  that  the  stranger  had  broken  his  arm.  She  was  not 
far  wrong — he  had  dislocated  his  wrist.  "  It  were  better 
had  it  been  my  neck,"  he  muttered,  as  he  yielded  his  hand 
to  the  gripe  of  the  surgeon,  nor  did  he  seem  to  wince  du- 
ring the  painful  operation ;  far  more  annoyed  was  he  by  the 
eyes  fixed  upon  him  and  the  questions  asked — his  manner, 
which  had  become  mollified  as  he  waited  on  his  poor  horse, 
resumed  all  its  former  repulsiveness ;  he  looked  like  a 
young  savage,  surrounded  by  enemies  whom  he  suspects, 
yet  is  unwilling  to  assail :  and  when  his  hand  was  ban- 
daged, and  his  horse  again  and  again  recommended  to  the 
groom,  he  was  about  to  take  leave,  with  thanks  that  almost 
seemed  reproaches,  for  having  an  obligation  thrust  on  him, 
when  Miss  Jers'is  exclaimed,  "  Surely,  1  am  not  mistaken — 
are  you  not  Master  Neville  V 

Falkner  started  as  if  a  snake  had  glided  across  his  path, 
while  the  youth,  colouring  to  the  very  roots  of  his  hair,  and 
looking  at  her  with  a  sort  of  rage  at  being  thus  in  a  matter 
detected,  rephed,  "  My  name  is  Neville." 

"  I  thought  so,"  said  the  other ;  "  I  used  to  see  you  at 
Lady  Glenfell's.     How  is  your  father,  Sir  Boyvill  V 

But  the  youth  would  answer  no  more ;  he  darted  at  the 
questioner  a  look  of  fury,  and  rushed  away.  "  Poor  fel- 
low !"  cried  Miss  Jervis,  "  he  is  wilder  than  ever — he  is  a 
very  sad  case.  His  mother  was  the  Mrs.  Neville  talked  of 
so  much  once — she  deserted  him,  and  his  father  hates  him. 
The  young  gentleman  is  half  crazed  by  ill  treatment  and 
neglect." 

"  Dearest  father,  are  you  ill  V  cried  Elizabeth — for  Falk- 
ner had  turned  ashy  pale — but  he  commanded  his  voice  to 
say  that  he  was  well,  and  left  the  room ;  a  few  minutes 
afterward  he  had  left  the  house,  and,  seeking  the  njost 
secluded  pathways,  walked  quickly  on  as  if  to  escape  from 
himself.  It  would  not  do — the  form  of  her  son  was  before 
him — a  ghost  to  haunt  him  to  madness.  Her  son,  whom 
she  had  loved  with  passion  inexpressible,  crazed  by  neglect 
and  unkindness.  Crazed  he  was  not — every  word  he  spoke 
showed  a  perfect  possession  of  acute  faculties — but  it  was 
almost  worse  to  see  so  much  misery  in  one  so  yoiuig.  In 
5  C 


50  FALKNER. 

person,  he  was  a  model  of  beauty  and  grace — his  mind 
seemed  formed  with  equal  perfection ;  a  quick  apprehen- 
sion, a  sensibility,  all  alive  to  every  touch;  but  these  were 
nursed  in  anguish  and  wrong,  and  strained  from  their  true 
conclusions  into  resentment,  suspicion,  and  a  fierce  disdain 
of  all  who  injured,  which  seemed  to  his  morbid  feelings  all 
who  named  or  approached  him.  Falkner  knew  that  he  was 
the  cause  of  this  evil.  How  different  a  life  he  had  led, 
if  his  mother  had  lived !  The  tenderness  of  her  disposi- 
tion, joined  to  her  great  talents  and  sweetness,  rendered  her 
unparalleled  in  the  attention  she  paid  to  his  happiness  and 
education.  No  mother  ever  equalled  her — for  no  woman 
ever  possessed  at  once  equal  virtues  and  equal  capacities. 
How  tenderly  she  had  reared  him,  how  devotedly  fond  she 
Avas,  Falkner  loo  well  knew  ;  and  tones  and  looks,  half  for- 
gotten, were  recalled  vividly  to  his  mind  at  the  sight  of  this 
poor  boy,  wretched  and  desolate  through  his  raslmess. 
What  availed  it  to  hate,  to  curse  the  father! — he  had  never 
been  delivered  over  to  tliis  father,  had  never  been  hated  by 
him,  had  his  mother  survived.  All  these  thoughts  crowded 
into  Falkner's  mind,  and  awoke  an  anguish,  which  time  had 
rendered,  to  a  certain  degree,  torpid.  He  regarded  himself 
Avith  bitter  contempt  and  abhorrence — he  feared,  with  a 
kind  of  insane  terror,  to  see  the  youth  again,  whose  eyes, 
so  like  hers,  he  had  robbed  of  all  expression  of  happiness, 
and  clouded  by  eternal  sorrow.  He  wandered  on — shrouded 
himself  in  the  deepest  thickets,  and  clambered  abrupt  hills, 
so  that,  by  breathless  fatigue  of  body,  he  might  cheat  his 
soul  of  its  agony. 

Night  came  on,  and  he  did  not  return  home.  Elizabeth 
grew  uneasy — till  at  last,  on  making  more  minute  inquiry, 
she  found  that  he  had  come  back,  and  was  retired  to  his 
room. 

It  was  the  custom  of  Falkner  to  ride  every  morning  with 
his  daughter  soon  after  sunrise ;  and  on  the  morrow,  Eliza- 
beth had  just  equipped  herself,  her  thoughts  full  of  the 
handsome  boy — whose  humanity  to  his  horse,  combined 
with  fortitude  in  enduring  great  personal  pain,  rendered  far 
more  interesting  than  ever.  She  felt  sure  that,  having  once 
commenced,  their  acquaintance  would  go  on,  and  that  his 
savage  shyness  would  be  conquered  by  her  father's  kind- 
ness. To  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  his  lot — to  win  his  con- 
fidence by  affection,  and  to  render  him  happy,  was  a  project 
that  was  occupying  her  delightfully — when  the  tramp  of  a 
horse  attracted  her  attention — and,  looking  from  the  win- 
dow, she  saw  Falkner  ride  off  at  a  quick  pace.  A  iew  min- 
utes afterward  a  note  was  brought  to  her  from  him.  It 
said — 


PALKNER.  51 

"  Dear  Elizabeth, 
"  Some  intelligence  which  I  received  yesterday  obliges 
me  unexpectedly  to  leave  Baden.  You  will  find  me  at 
Mayence.  Request  Miss  Jervis  to  have  everything  packed 
up  as  speedily  as  possible ;  and  to  send  for  the  landlord, 
and  give  up  the  possession  of  our  house.  The  rent  is  paid. 
Come  in  the  carriage.     I  shall  expect  you  this  evening. 

"  Yours,  dearest, 

"J.  Falkner." 

Nothing  could  be  more  disappointing  than  this  note.  Her 
first  fairy  dream  beyond  the  limits  of  her  home,  to  be  thus 
brushed  away  at  once.  No  word  of  young  Neville — no 
hope  held  out  of  return !  For  a  moment  an  emotion  ruffled 
her  mind,  very  like  ill-humour.  She  read  the  note  again — 
it  seemed  yet  more  unsatisfactory — but,  in  turning  the  page, 
she  found  a  postscript.  "  Pardon  me,"  it  said,  "  for  not  see- 
ing you  last  night;  I  was  not  well — nor  am  I  now." 

These  few  words  instantly  gave  a  new  direction  to  her 
thoughts — her  father  not  well,  and  she  absent,  was  very 
painful — then  she  recurred  to  the  beginning  of  the  note. 
"  Intelligence  received  yesterday" — some  evil  news,  surely 
— since  the  result  was  to  make  him  ill — at  such  a  word  the 
recollection  of  his  sufferings  rushed  upon  her,  and  she 
thought  no  more  of  the  unhappy  boy,  but,  hurrying  to  Miss 
Jervis,  entreated  her  to  use  the  utmost  expedition  that  they 
might  depart  speedily.  Once  she  visited  Neville's  horse ; 
it  was  doing  well,  and  she  ordered  it  to  be  led  carefully  and 
slowly  to  Sir  Boyvill's  stables. 

So  great  was  her  impatience,  that  by  noon  they  were  in 
the  carriage — and  in  a  few  hours  they  joined  Falkner  at 
Mayence.  Elizabeth  gazed  anxiously  on  him.  He  was  an 
altered  man — there  was  something  wild  and  haggard  in  his 
looks,  that  bespoke  a  sleepless  night,  and  a  struggle  of 
painful  emotion  by  which  the  very  elements  of  his  being 
were  convulsed  : — "  You  are  ill,  dear  father,"  cried  EHza- 
beth ;  "  you  have  heard  some  news  that  afflicts  you  very 
much." 

"  I  have,"  he  replied  ;  "  but  do  not  regard  me  :  I  shall  re- 
cover the  shock  soon,  and  then  all  will  be  as  it  was  before. 
Do  not  ask  questions — but  we  must  return  to  England  im- 
mediately." 

To  England  !  such  a  word  Falkner  had  never  before  spo- 
ken— Miss  Jervis  looked  almost  surprised,  and  really 
pleased.  A  return  to  her  native  country,  so  long  deserted, 
and  almost  forgotten,  was  an  event  to  excite  Elizabeth  even 
to  agitation — the  very  name  was  full  of  so  many  associa- 
tions. Were  they  hereafter  to  reside  there  ?  Should  they 
visit  Treby  1  What  was  about  to  happen  1  She  was  bid 
ask  no  questions,  and  she  obeyed — but  her  thoughts  were 
C8 


53  FALKNER. 

the  more  busy.  She  remembered,  also,  that  Neville  was 
English,  and  she  looked  forward  to  meeting  him,  and  re- 
newing her  projects  for  his  welfare. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

In  the  human  heart,  and,  if  observation  does  not  err, 
more  particularly  in  the  heart  of  man,  the  passions  exert 
their  influence  fitfully.  With  some  analogy  to  the  laws 
which  govern  the  elements,  tliey  now  sleep  in  calm,  and 
now  arise  with  the  violence  of  furious  winds.  Falkner  had 
latterly  attained  a  state  of  feeling  approaching  to  equanim- 
ity. He  displayed  more  cheerfulness — a  readier  iHterest  in 
the  daily  course  of  events — a  power  to  give  himself  up  to 
any  topic  discussed  in  his  presence  ;  but  this  had  now  van- 
ished. Gloom  sat  on  his  brow — he  was  inattentive  even  to 
Elizabeth.  Sunk  back  in  the  carriage — his  eyes  bent  on 
vacancy,  he  was  the  prey  of  thoughts,  each  of  which  had 
the  power  to  wound. 

It  was  a  melancholy  journey.  And  when  they  arrived  in 
London,  Falkner  became  still  more  absorbed  and  wretched. 
The  action  of  remorse,  which  had  been  for  some  time  sus- 
pended, renewed  its  attacks,  and  made  him  look  upon  him- 
self as  a  creature  at  once  hateful  and  accursed.  We  are 
such  weak  beings,  that  the  senses  have  power  to  impress 
us  with  a  vividness  which  no  mere  mental  operation  can 
produce.  Falkner  had  been  at  various  times  haunted  by 
the  probable  consequences  of  his  guilt  on  the  child  of  his 
victim.  He  recollected  the  selfish  and  arrogant  character 
of  his  father ;  and  conscience  had  led  him  to  reproach  him- 
self with  the  conviction,  that  whatever  virtues  young  Ne- 
ville derived  from  his  mother,  or  had  been  implanted  by  her 
care,  must  have  been  rooted  out  by  the  neglect  or  evil  ex- 
ample of  his  surviving  parent.  The  actual  eff"ect  of  her 
loss  he  had  not  anticipated.  There  was  something  heart- 
breaking to  see  a  youth,  nobly  gifted  by  nature  and  fortune, 
delivered  over  to  a  sullen  resentment  for  unmerited  wrongs 
— to  dejection,  if  not  to  despair.  An  uninterested  observer 
must  deeply  compassionate  him ;  Elizabeth  had  done  so, 
child  as  she  was,  witli  a  pity  almost  painful  from  its  ex- 
cess ;  what,  then,  must  he  feel  who  knew  himself  to  be  the 
cause  of  all  his  wo  ? 

Falkner  was  not  a  man  to  sit  quietly  under  these  emo- 
tions. In  their  first  onset  they  had  driven  him  to  suicide ; 
preserved  as  by  a  miracle,  he  had  exerted  strong  self-com- 
mand, and,  by  dint  of  resolution,  forced  himself  to  live. 


FALkNER.  63 

Vear  after  year  had  passed,  and  he  abided  by  the  sentence 
of  life  he  had  passed  on  himself — and,  like  the  galley-slave, 
the  iron  which  had  eaten  into  the  flesh  galled  less  than 
when  newly  applied.  But  he  was  brought  back  from  the 
patience  engendered  by  custom  at  the  sight  of  the  unfortu- 
nate boy.  He  felt  himself  accursed — God-reprobated — 
mankind  (though  they  knew  it  not)  abhorred  him.  He 
would  no  longer  live — for  he  deserved  to  die.  He  would 
not  again  raise  his  hand  against  himself — but  there  are  many 
gates  to  the  tomb ;  he  found  no  dithculty  in  selecting  one 
by  which  to  enter.  He  resolved  to  enter  upon  a  scene  of 
desperate  warfare  in  a  distant  country,  and  to  seek  a  deliv- 
erance from  the  pains  of  life  by  the  bullet  or  the  sword  on 
the  field  of  battle.  Above  all,  he  resolved  that  Elizabeth's 
innocence  should  no  longer  be  associated  with  his  guilt. 
The  catastrophe  he  meditated  must  be  sought  alone,  and 
she,  whom  he  had  lived  to  protect  and  foster,  must  be 
guarded  from  the  hardships  and  perils  to  which  he  was 
about  to  deliver  himself  up. 

Meditation  on  this  new  course  absorbed  him  for  some 
days.  At  first  he  had  been  sunk  in  despondency ;  as  the 
prospect  opened  before  him  of  activity  allied  to  peril,  and 
sought  for  the  sake  of  the  destruction  to  which  it  unavoida- 
bly led,  his  spirits  rose ;  like  a  war-horse  dreaming  of  the 
sound  of  a  trumpet,  his  heart  beat  high  in  the  hope  of  for- 
getting the  consciousness  of  remorse  in  all  the  turbulence 
of  battle  or  the  last  forgetfulness  of  the  grave.  Still  it  was 
a  difficult  task  to  impart  his  plan  to  the  orphan,  and  to  pre- 
pare her  for  a  sepai-ation.  Several  times  he  had  tried  to 
commence  the  subject,  and  felt  his  courage  fail  him.  At 
length,  being  together  one  day,  some  weeks  after  their  arri- 
val in  London — when,  indeed,  many  steps  had  been  already 
taken  by  him  in  furtherance  of  his  project — at  twilight,  as 
they  sat  together  near  the  window  which  looked  upon  one 
of  the  London  squares — and  they  had  been  comparing  this 
metropolis  with  many  foreign  cities — Falkner  abruptly,  fear- 
ful, if  he  lost  this  occasion,  of  not  finding  another  so  appro- 
priate, said,  "  I  must  bid  you  good-by  to-night,  Elizabeth — 
to-morrow,  earh%  I  set  out  for  the  north  of  England." 

"You  mean  to  leave  me  behind!"  she  asked;  "but  you 
will  not  be  away  long  !" 

"  I  am  going  to  visit  your  relations,"  he  replied  ;  "  to  dis- 
close to  them  that  you  are  under  my  care,  and  to  prepare 
them  to  receive  you.  I  hope  soon  to  return,  either  to  con- 
duct you  to  them,  or  to  bring  one  among  them  to  welcome 
you  here." 

Elizabeth  was  startled.  Many  yeai-s  had  elapsed  since 
Falkner  had  alluded  to  her  aUen  parentage.  She  went  by 
his  name,  she  called  him  father;  and  the  appellation  scarcely 
seemed  a  fiction — he  had  been  the  kindest,  fondest  pareut  to 


54  FALKNBR. 

her — nor  had  he  ever  hinted  that  he  meant  to  forego  the 
claim  his  adoption  had  given  him,  and  to  maJce  her  over  to 
those  who  were  worse  than  strangers  in  her  eyes.  If  ever 
they  had  recurred  to  her  real  situation,  he  had  not  been 
chary  of  expressions  of  indignation  against  the  Raby  fam- 
ily. He  had  described  with  warm  resentment  the  selfish- 
ness, the  hardness  of  heart,  and  disdain  of  the  well-being  of 
those  allied  to  them  by  blood,  which  too  often  subsists  in 
aristocratic  English  families  when  the  first  bond  has  been 
broken  by  any  act  of  disobedience.  He  grew  angry  as  he 
spoke  of  the  indignity  with  which  her  mother  had  been 
treated,  and  the  barbarous  proposition  of  separating  her 
from  her  only  child;  and  he  had  fondly  assured  her  that  it 
was  his  dearest  pride  to  render  her  independent  of  these  un- 
worthy and  inhuman  relations.  Why  were  his  intentions 
changed!  His  voice  and  look  were  ominous.  Elizabeth 
was  hurt — she  did  not  like  to  object. ;  she  was  silent — but 
Falkner  deciphered  her  wounded  feelings  in  her  ingenuous 
countenance,  and  he  too  was  pained ;  he  could  not  bear  that 
she  should  think  him  ungrateful — mindless  of  her  affection, 
her  filial  attentions,  and  endearing  virtues ;  he  felt  that  he 
must,  to  a  certain  degree,  explain  his  views — difficult  as  it 
was  to  make  a  segment  of  his  feelings  in  any  way  take  a 
definite  or  satisfactory  shape. 

"  Do  not  think  hardly  of  me,  my  own  dear  girl,"  he  be- 
gan, '•  for  wishing  that  we  should  separate.  God  knows 
that  it  is  a  blow  that  will  visit  me  far  more  severely  than 
you.  You  will  find  relations  and  friends  who  will  be  proud 
of  you — whose  aftections  you  will  win ;  wherever  you  are, 
you  will  meet  with  love  and  admiration — and  your  sweet 
disposition  and  excellent  qualities  will  make  life  happy.  I 
depart  alone.  You  are  my  only  tie — my  only  friend — I 
break  it  and  leave  you — never  can  I  find  another.  Hence- 
forth, alone,  I  shall  wander  into  distant  and  uncivilized  coun- 
tries, enter  on  a  new  and  perilous  career,  during  which  I 
may  perish  miserably.  You  cannot  share  these  dangers 
with  me." 

"But  why  do  you  seek  them?"  exclaimed  Ehzabeth, 
alarmed  by  this  sudden  prophecy  of  ill. 

"  Do  you  remember  the  day  when  we  first  met  V  replied 
Falkner ;  "  when  my  hand  was  raised  against  my  own  life, 
because  I  knew  myself  unworthy  to  exist.  It  is  the  same 
now.  It  is  cowardly  to  live,  feeling  that  I  have  forfeited 
every  right  to  enjoy  the  blessings  of  life.  I  go  that  I  may 
die — not  by  my  own  hand — but  where  I  can  meet  death  by 
the  hand  of  others." 

Strangely  and  frightfully  did  these  words  fall  on  the  ear 
of  his  appalled  listener;  he  went  on  rapidly — for  having 
once  begun,  the  words  he  uttered  relieved,  in  some  degree, 
the  misery  that  burdened  his  soul. 


FALKNER.  55 

"  This  idea  cannot  astonish  you,  my  love  ;  you  have  seen 
too  much  of  the  secret  of  my  heart ;  you  have  witnessed 
my  fits  of  distress  and  anguish,  and  are  not  now  told,  for  the 
first  time,  that  grief  and  remorse  weigh  intolerably  on  me. 
I  can  endure  the  infliction  no  longer.  May  God  forgive  me 
in  another  world — the  light  of  this  I  will  see  no  more!" 

Falkner  saw  the  sort  of  astonished  distress  her  counte- 
nance depicted  ;  and,  angry  with  himself  for  being  its  cause, 
was  going  on  in  a  voice  changed  to  one  less  expressive  of 
misery,  but  Elizabeth,  seized  with  dismay — the  unbidden 
tears  pouring  from  her  eyes — her  young — her  child's  heart 
bursting  with  a  new  sense  of  horror — cast  herself  at  his  feet, 
and,  embracing  his  knees  as  he  sat,  exclaimed,  "  My  dear, 
dear  father! — my  more  than  father,  and  only  friend — you 
break  my  heart  by  speaking  thus.  If  you  are  miserable, 
the  more  need  that  your  child — the  creature  you  preserved, 
and  taught  to  love  you — should  be  at  your  side  to  comfort — 
I  had  almost  said  to  help  you.  You  must  not  cast  me  off! 
Were  you  happy,  you  might  desert  me  ;  but  if  you  are  mis- 
erable, I  cannot  leave  you — you  must  not  ask  me — it  kills 
me  to  think  of  it!'' 

The  youthful,  who  have  no  experience  of  the  changes  of 
hfe,  regard  the  present  with  far  more  awe  and  terror  than 
those  who  have  seen  one  turn  in  the  hourglass  suffice  to 
change,  and  change  again,  the  colour  of  their  lives.  To  be 
divided  from  Falkner  was  to  have  the  pillars  of  the  earth 
shaken  under  her — and  she  clung  to  him,  and  looked  up  im- 
ploringly in  his  face,  as  if  the  next  word  he  spoke  were  to 
decide  all ;  he  kissed  her,  and,  seating  her  on  his  knee,  said, 
"  Let  us  talk  of  this  more  calmly,  dearest — I  was  wrong  to 
agitate  you — or  to  mix  the  miserable  thoughts  forced  on 
me  by  my  wretchedness,  with  the  prudent  consideration  of 
your  future  destiny.  I  feel  it  to  be  unjust  to  keep  you  from 
your  relations.  They  are  rich.  We  are  ignorant  of  what 
changes  and  losses  may  have  taken  place  among  them,  to 
soften  their  hearts — which,  after  all,  were  never  shut 
against  you.  You  may  have  become  of  importance  in  their 
eyes.  Raby  is  a  proud  name,  and  we  must  not  heedlessly 
forego  the  advantages  that  may  belong  to  your  right  to  it." 
"  My  dear  father,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "  this  talk  is  not  for 
me.  I  have  no  wish  to  claim  the  kindness  of  those  who 
treated  my  true  parents  ill.  You  are  everything  to  me.  I 
am  little  more  than  a  child,  and  cannot  find  words  to  express 
all  I  mean  ;  but  my  truest  meaning  is,  to  show  my  gratitude 
to  you  till  my  dying  day;  to  remain  with  you  for  ever, 
while  you  love  me;  and  to  be  the  most  miserable  creature 
in  the  world  if  you  drive  me  from  you.  Have  we  not  lived 
together  since  I  was  a  little  thing,  no  higher  than  your  kne^  ? 
And  all  the  time  you  have  been  kinder  than  any  father. 
When  we  have  beea  exposed  to  storms,  you  have  wrapped 


60  FALKNER. 

me  round  in  your  arms  so  that  no  drop  could  fall  on  my 
head.  Do  you  remember  that  dreadful  evening,  when  our 
carriage  broke  down  in  the  wide,  dark  steppe  ;  and  you, 
covering  me  up,  carried  me  in  your  arms,  while  the  wind 
howled  and  the  freezing  rain  drove  against  youl  You 
could  hardly  bear  up  ;  and  when  we  arrived  at  the  post- 
house,  you,  strong  man  as  you  are,  fainted  from  exhaustion; 
while  I,  sheltered  in  your  arms,  was  as  warm  and  well  as 
if  it  had  been  a  summer's  day.  You  have  earned  me — you 
have  bought  me  by  all  this  kindness,  and  you  must  not  cast 
me  away !" 

She  clung  round  his  neck — her  face  bathed  in  tears,  sob- 
bing  and  speaking  in  broken   accents.     As  she  saw  him 
soften,  she  implored  him  yet  more  earnestly,  till  his  heart 
was  quite  subdued  ;  and,  clasping  her  to  his  heart,  he  show- 
ered kisses  on  her  head  and  neck;  while,  to  his  surprise, 
forgotten  tears  sprung    to  his  own  ej'es.     "  For  worlds  I 
would  not  desert  you,"  he  cried.     "'  It  is  not  casting  you 
away  that  we  should  separate  for  a  short  time  ;  for  where  I 
go,  indeed,  dearest,  you  cannot  accompany  me.     I  cannot 
go  on  living  as  I  have  done.    For  many  years  now  my  life  has 
been  spent  in  pleasantness  and  peace — I  have  no  right  to 
this — hardship,  and  toil,  and  death  I  ought  to  repay.     I  ab- 
hor myself  for  a  coward,  when  I  think  of  what  others  suf- 
fer through  my  deeds — while  I   am   scathless.     You  can 
scarcely  remember  the  hour  when  the  touch  of  your  little 
hand  saved  my  life.     My  heart  is  not  changed  sinte  then — 
I  am  unworthy  to  exist.     Dear  Ehzabeth,  you  may  one  day 
hate  me,  when  you  know  the  misery  I  have  caused  to  those 
who  deserved  better  at  my  hands.     The  cry  of  my  victim 
rings  in  my  ears,  and  1  am  base  to  survive  my  crime.     Let 
me,  dearest,  make  my  own  the  praise,  that  nothing  graced 
my  life  more  than  the  leaving  it.     To  live  a  coward  and  a 
droi.<',  suits  vilely  with  my  former  acts  of  violence  and  ill. 
Let  mi!  gain  peace  of  mind  by  exposing  my  life  to  danger. 
By  advocating  a  just  cause   I  may  bring  a  blessing  dow'n 
upon  my  enrleavours.     I  shall  go  to  Greece.     Theirs  is  a 
good  cause — that  of  liberty  and  Christianity  against  tyranny 
and  an  evil  faith.     Let  me  dio  fcr  it ;  and  when  it  is  known, 
as  it  will  one  day  be,  that  the  iiniocent  perished  through  me, 
it  will  be  added,  that  1  died  in  tlie  defence  of  the  suffering 
and  the    brave.     But  you  cannot  go   with   me   to  Greece, 
dearest ;  you  must  await  my  return  in  this  country." 

"  You  go  to  di-e !"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  I  am  to  be  far 
away.  No,  dear  father,  I  am  a  little  girl,  but  no  harm  can 
happen  to  me.  The  Ionian  Isles  are  under  the  Knglish  gov- 
ernment— there,  at  least,  I  may  go.  Athens  too,  i  dare  say, 
is  safe.  Dear  Athens — we  spent  a  happy  winter  there  bo- 
fore  the  revolution  began.  You  forget  what  a  traveller  I 
am — how  accustomed  to  find  my  homo  among  strangers  in 


FALKNER.  >  &? 

foreign  and  savage  lands.  No,  dear  father,  you  will  not 
leave  me  behind.  I  am  not  unreasonable — I  do  not  ask  to 
follow  you  to  the  camp — but  you  must  let  me  be  near — in 
the  same  country  as  yourself." 

"  You  force  me  to  yield  against  my  better  reason,"  said 
Falkner.  "  This  is  not  right — I  feel  that  it  is  not  so — one 
of  your  sex,  and  so  young,  ought  not  to  be  exposed  to  all  I 
am  about  to  encounter ;  and  if  I  should  die,  and  leave  you 
there  desolate  ]" 

"  There  are  good  Christians  everywhere  to  protect  the 
orphan,"  persisted  Elizabeth.  "  As  if  you  could  die  when 
I  am  with  you !  And  if  you  died  while  I  was  far,  what 
would  become  of  me?  Am  I  to  be  left,  like  a  poor  sailor's 
wife — to  get  a  shocking,  black-sealed  letter,  to  tell  me  that, 
while  I  was  enjoying  myself,  and  hoping  that  you  had  long 
been —  It  is  wicked  to  speak  of  these  things — but  I 
shall  go  with  my  own  dear,  dear  father,  and  he  shall  not 
die !" 

Falkner  yielded  to  her  tears,  her  caresses,  and  persuasions. 
He  was  not  convinced,  but  he  could  not  withstand  the  ex- 
cess of  grief  she  displayed  at  the  thought  of  parting.  It 
was  agreed  that  she  should  accompany  him  to  the  Ionian 
Isles,  and  take  up  her  residence  there  while  he  joined  the 
patriot  band  in  Greece.  This  point  being  decided  upon,  he 
was  anxious  that  their  departure  should  not  be  delayed  a 
single  hour,  for  most  earnest  was  he  to  go,  to  throw  off 
the  sense  of  the  present — to  forget  his  pangs  in  anticipated 
danger. 

Falkner  played  no  false  part  with  himself.  He  longed  to 
die ;  nor  did  the  tenderness  and  fidelity  of  Elizabeth  disarm 
his  purpose.  He  was  convinced  that  she  must  be  happier 
and  more  prosperous  when  he  was  removed.  His  tortured 
mind  found  relief  when  he  thought  of  sacrificing  his  life, 
and  quitting  it  honourably  on  the  field  of  battle.  It  was 
only  by  the  prospect  of  such  a  fate  that  he  shut  his  eyes  to 
sterner  duties.  In  his  secret  heart,  he  knew  that  the  course 
demanded  of  him  by  honour  and  conscience  was  to  stand 
forth,  declare  his  crime,  and  reveal  the  mysterimis  tragedy, 
of  which  he  was  the  occasion,  to  the  Avorld  ;  but  he  dared 
uot  accuse  himself,  and  live.  It  was  this  that  urged  him  to 
the  thoughts  of  death.  "  When  I  am  no  more,"  he  told  him- 
self, "  let  all  he  declared — let  my  name  be  loaded  with 
curses — but  let  it  be  added,  that  1  died  to  expiate  my  guilt. 
I  cannot  be  called  upon  to  live  with  a  brand  upon  my  name ; 
soon  it  will  be  all  over,  and  then  let  them  heap  obloquy, 
pyramid-high,  upon  my  grave  !  Poor  Elizabeth  will  become 
a  Raby  ;  and,  once  cold  beneath  the  sod,  no  more  misery 
will  spring  from  acts  of  mine  !" 

Actuated  by  these  thoughts,  Falkner  drew  up  two  narra- 
tives— both  short.     The  tenour  of  one  need  not  be  mentioned 
C  3 


68  FALKNER. 

in  this  piace.  The  other  stated  how  he  had  found  Elizabeth 
and  adopted  her.  He  sealed  up  with  this  the  few  docu- 
ments that  proved  her  birth.  He  also  made  his  will — divi- 
ding his  property  between  his  heir  at  law  and  adopted  child 
— and  smiled  proudly  to  think,  that,  dowered  thus  by  him, 
she  would  be  gladly  received  into  her  father's  family. 

Every  other  arrangement  for  their  voyage  was  quickly 
made,  and  it  remained  only  to  determine  whether  Miss  Jer- 
vis  should  accompany  them.  Elizabeth's  mind  was  divided. 
She  was  averse  to  parting  with  an  unoffending  and  kind 
companion,  and  to  forego  her  instructions — though,  in  truth, 
she  had  got  beyond  them.  But  she  feared  that  the  govern- 
ess might  hereafter  shackle  her  conduct.  Every  word 
Falkner  had  let  fall  concerning  his  desire  to  die,  she  re- 
membered and  pondered  upon.  To  watch  over  and  to  serve 
him  was  her  aim  in  going  with  him.  Child  as  she  was,  a 
thousand  combinations  of  danger  presented  themselves  to 
her  imagination,  when  her  resolution  and  fearlessness 
might  bring  safety.  The  narrow^  views  and  timid  disposi- 
tion of  Miss  Jervis  might  impede  her  grievously. 

The  governess  herself  was  perplexed.  She  was  startled 
when  she  heard  of  the  new  scheme.  She  was  pleased  to 
find  herself  once  again  in  England,  and  repugnant  to  the 
idea  of  leaving  so  soon  again  for  so  distant  a  region,  where 
a  thousand  perils  of  war  and  pestilence  would  beset  every 
step.  She  was  sorry  to  part  with  Elizabeth,  but  some  day 
that  time  must  come  ;  and  others,  dearer  from  ties  of  rela- 
tionship, lived  in  England  from  whom  she  had  been  loo 
long  divided.  Weighing  these  things,  she  showed  a  degree 
of  hesitation  that  caused  Falkner  to  decide  as  his  heart  in- 
clined, and  to  determine  that  she  should  not  accompany 
him.  She  went  with  them  as  far  as  Plymouth,  where  they 
embarked.  Elizabeth,  so  long  a  wanderer,  felt  no  regret  in 
leaving  England.  She  was  to  remain  with  one  who  was 
far  more  than  country — who  was  indeed  her  all.  Falkner 
felt  a  load  taken  from  his  heart  when  his  feet  touched  the 
deck  of  the  vessel  that  was  to  bear  them  away — half  his 
duly  was  accomplished — the  course  begun  which  would 
lead  to  the  catastrophe  he  coveted.  The  sun  shone  brightly 
on  the  ocean,  the  beeze  was  fresh  and  favourable.  •  Miss 
Jervis  saw  them  push  from  shore  with  smiles  and  happy 
looks — she  saw  them  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  which,  with 
sails  unfurled,  had  already  begun  its  course  over  the  sea. 
Elizabeth  waved  her  handkerchief — all  grew  confused  ;  the 
vessel  itself  was  sinking  beneath  the  horizon,  and  long  be- 
fore night  no  portion  of  her  canvass  could  be  perceived. 

"  I  wonder,"  thought  Miss  Jervis,  "  whether  I  shall  ever 
see  them  again !" 


FALKNER.  59 


CHAPTER  IX. 

Three  years  from  this  time,  Elizabeth  found  herself  in 
the  position  she  had  vaguely  anticipated  at  the  outset,  but 
which  every  day  spent  in  Greece  showed  her  as  probable,  if 
not  inevitable.  Tliese  three  years  brought  Falkner  to  the 
verge  of  the  death  he  had  gone  out  to  seek.  He  lay  wound- 
ed, a  prey  of  the  Greek  fever,  to  all  appearance  about  to 
die  ;  while  she  watched  over  him,  striving,  not  only  to  avert 
the  fatal  consequences  of  disease,  but  also  to  combat  the  de- 
sire to  die  which  destroyed  him. 

In  describing  Elizabeth's  conduct  during  these  three 
years,  it  may  be  thought  that  the  type  is  presented  of  ideal 
and  almost  unnatural  perfection.  She  w^as,  it  is  true,  a  re- 
markable creature ;  and  unless  she  had  possessed  rare  and 
exalted  qualities,  her  history  had  not  afforded  a  topic  for 
these  pages.  She  was  intelligent,  warm-hearted,  courage- 
ous, and  sincere.  Her  lively  sense  of  duty  was  perhaps 
her  chief  peculiarity.  It  was  that  which  strung  to  such 
sweet  harmony  the  other  portions  of  her  character.  This 
had  been  fostered  by  the  circumstances  of  her  life.  Her 
earliest  recollection  was  of  her  dying  parents.  Their  mu- 
tual consolations,  the  bereaved  widow's  lament,  and  her 
talk  of  another  and  a  better  world,  where  all  would  meet 
again  who  fulfilled  their  part  virtuously  in  this  world.  She 
had  been  taught  to  remember  her  parents  as  inheriting  the 
immortal  life  promised  to  the  just,  and  to  aspire  to  the 
same.  She  had  learned,  from  her  mother's  example,  that 
there  is  nothing  so  beautiful  and  praiseworthy  as  the  sacri- 
fice of  hfe  to  the  good  and  happiness  of  one  beloved.  She 
never  forgot  her  debt  to  Falkner.  She  felt  herself  bound 
to  him  by  stronger  than  filial  ties.  A  father  performs  an 
imperious  duty  in  cherishing  his  child ;  but  all  had  been 
spontaneous  benevolence  in  Falkner.  His  very  faults  and 
passions  made  his  sacrifice  the  greater,  and  his  generosity 
the  more  conspicuous.  Elizabeth  believed  that  she  could 
never  adequately  repay  the  vast  obligation  which  she  was 
under  to  him. 

Miss  Jervis  also  had  conduced  to  perfectionize  her  mind 
by  adding  to  its  harmony  and  justness.  Miss  Jervis,  it  is 
true,  might  be  compared  to  the  rough-handed  gardener, 
whose  labours  are  without  elegance,  and  yet  to  whose 
waterings  and  vigilance  the  fragrant  carnation  owes  its  pe- 
culiar tint,  and  the  wax-like  camellia  its  especial  variety.  It 
was  through  her  that  she  had  methodised  her  mind — through 
her  that  she  had  learned  to  concentrate  and  prolong  her  at- 


60  FALKNER. 

tention,  and  to  devote  it  to  study.  She  had  taught  her  or= 
der  and  industry — and,  without  knowing  it,  she  had  done 
more — she  had  inspired  ardour  for  knowledge,  delight  in  its 
acquisition,  and  a  glad  sense  of  self-approbation  when  diffi- 
culties were  conquered  by  perseverance ;  and  when,  by 
dint  of  resolution,  ignorance  was  exchanged  for  a  clear  per- 
ception of  any  portion  of  learning. 

It  has  been  said  that  every  clever  person  is,  to  a  certain 
degree,  mad.  By  which  it  is  to  be  understood,  that  every 
person  whose  mind  soars  above  the  vulgar,  has  some  exalt- 
ed and  disinterested  object  in  view  to  which  they  are  ready 
to  sacrifice  the  common  blessings  of  life.  Thus,  from  the 
motnent  that  Elizabeth  had  brought  Falkner  to  consent  to 
her  accompanying  him  to  Greece,  she  had  devoted  herself 
to  the  task,  first,  of  saving  his  life,  if  it  should  be  in  danger; 
and,  secondly,  of  reconciling  him  in  the  end  to  prolonged 
existence.  There  were  many  difficulties  which  presented 
themselves,  since  she  was  unaware  of  the  circumstances 
that  drove  him  to  seek  death  as  a  remedy  and  an  atone- 
ment ;  nor  had  she  any  desire  to  pry  into  her  benefactor's 
secrets :  in  her  own  heart,  she  suspected  an  overstrained 
delicacy  or  generosity  of  feeling,  which  exaggerated  error, 
and  gave  the  sting  to  remorse.  But  whatever  was  the  oc- 
casion of  his  sufferings,  she  dedicated  herself  to  their  re- 
lief; and  resolved  to  educate  herself  so  as  to  fulfil  the  task 
of  reconciling  him  to  life,  to  the  best  of  her  ability. 

Left  at  Zante,  while  he  proceeded  to  join  the  patriot 
bands  of  Greece,  she  boarded  in  the  house  of  a  respectable 
family,  but  hved  in  the  most  retired  manner  possible.  Her 
chief  time  was  spent  in  study.  She  read  to  store  her  mind 
— to  confirm  its  fortitude — to  elevate  its  tone.  She  read, 
also,  to  acquire  such  precepts  of  philosophy  and  religion  as 
might  best  apply  to  her  peculiar  task,  and  to  learn  those 
secrets  of  life  and  death  whicli  Falkner's  desire  to  die  had 
brought  so  home  to  her  juvenile  imagination. 

If  a  time  is  to  be  named  when  the  human  heart  is  nearest 
moral  perfection,  most  alive,  and  yet  most  innocent,  aspiring 
to  good,  without  a  knowledge  of  evil,  the  period  at  which 
Elizabeth  had  arrived — from  thirteen  to  sixteen — is  it 
Vague  forebodings  are  awakened ;  a  sense  of  the  opening 
drama  of  life,  unaccompanied  with  any  longing  to  enter  on 
it — that  feeling  is  reserved  for  the  years  that  follow ;  but  at 
fourteen  and  fifteen  we  only  feel  that  we  are  emerging  from 
childhood,  and  we  rejoice,  having  yet  a  sense  that  as  yet  it 
is  not  fitting  that  we  should  make  one  of  the  real  actors  on 
the  world's  stage.  A  dreamy,  delicious  period,  when  all  is 
unknown ;  and  yet  we  feel  that  all  is  soon  to  be  unveiled. 
The  first  pang  has  not  been  felt ;  for  we  consider  childhood's 
woes  (real  and  frightful  as  those  sometimes  are)  as  puerile, 
and  no  longer  belonging  to  us.    We  look  upon  the  menaced 


FALKNER.  61 

evils  of  life  as  a  fiction.  How  can  care  touch  the  soul 
which  places  its  desires  beyond  low-minded  thought  ?  In 
gratitude,  deceit,  treason — these  have  not  yet  engendered 
distrust  of  others,  nor  have  our  own  weaknesses  and  errors 
plapted  the  thorn  of  self-disapprobation  and  regret.  Soli- 
tude is  no  evil,  for  the  thoughts  are  rife  with  busy  visions ; 
and  the  shadows  that  flit  ai-ound  and  people  our  reveries 
have  almost  the  substance  and  vitality  of  the  actual  world. 

Elizabeth  was  no  dreamer.  Though  brought  up  abstracted 
from  common  worldly  pursuits,  there  was  something  sin- 
gularly practical  about  lier.  She  aimed  at  being  useful  in 
all  her  reveries.  This  desire  was  rendered  still  more  fer- 
vent by  her  affection  for  Falkner — by  her  fears  on  his  ac- 
count— by  her  ardent  wish  to  make  hfe  dear  to  him.  All 
her  employments,  all  her  pleasures,  referred  themselves,  as 
it  were,  to  this  primary  motive,  and  were  entirely  ruled 
by  it. 

She  portioned  out  the  hours  of  each  day,  and  adhered 
steadily  to  her  self-imposed  rules.  To  the  early  morning's 
ride  succeeded  her  various  studies,  of  which  music,  for 
which  she  developed  a  true  ear  and  delicate  taste,  formed 
one ;  one  occupation  relieved  the  other ;  from  her  dear 
books  she  had  recourse  to  her  needle,  and,  bending  over 
her  embroidery  frame,  she  meditated  on  what  she  read ;  ' 
or,  occupied  by  many  conjectures  and  many  airy  dreams 
concerning  Falkner,  she  became  absorbed  in  revery.  Some- 
times, from  the  immediate  object  of  these,  her  memory  re- 
verted to  the  melancholy  boy  she  had  seen  at  Baden.  His 
wild  eyes — his  haughty  glance — his  lively  solicitude  about 
the  animal  he  had  hurt,  and  uncomplaining  fortitude  with 
which  he  had  endured  bodily  pain,  were  often  present  to 
her.  She  wished  that  they  had  not  quitted  Baden  so  sud- 
denly :  if  they  had  remained  but  a  few  days  longer,  he 
might  have  learned  to  love  them ;  and  even  now  he  might 
be  with  Falkner,  sharing  his  dangers,  it  is  true,  but  also 
each  guarding  the  other  from  that  rash  contempt  of  life  in 
which  they  both  indulged. 

Her  whole  mind  being  filled  by  duties  and  affection,  each 
day  seemed  short,  yet  each  was  varied.  At  dawn  she  rose 
hglitly  from  her  bed,  and  looked  out  over  the  blue  sea  and 
rocky  shore  ;  she  prayed,  as  she  gazed,  for  the  safety  of 
her  benefactor ;  and  her  thoughts,  soaring  to  her  mother  in 
heaven,  asked  her  blessing  to  descend  upon  her  child. 
Morning  was  not  so  fresh  as  her,  as  she  met  its  first  sweet 
breath ;  and,  cantering  along  the  beach,  she  thought  of 
Falkner — his  absence,  his  toils  and  dangers — with  resigna- 
tion, mingled  with  a  hope  that  warmed  into  an  ardent  desire 
to  see  him  again.  Surely  there  is  no  object  so  sweet  as  the 
young  in  solitude.  In  after  years — when  death  has  bereaved 
us  of  the  dearest — when  cares,  and  regrets,  and  fears,  and 


62  -  FALKNER. 

passions,  evil  either  in  their  nature  or  their  results,  have 
stained  our  lives  with  black,  solitude  is  too  sadly  peopled 
to  be  pleasing  ;  and  when  we  see  one  of  mature  years  alone, 
we  believe  that  sadness  must  be  the  companion.  But  the 
solitary  thoughts  of  the  young  are  glorious  dreams — 

"  Their  state,  • 

Like, to  a  lark  at  break  of  day  arising 
From  sullen  earth,  sings  hymns  at  heaven's  gate." 

To  behold  this  j^oung  and  lovely  girl  wandering  by  the  lonely 
shore,  her  thoughts  her  only  companions,  love  for  her  bene- 
factor her  only  passion,  no  touch  of  earth  and  its  sordid 
Avoes  about  her,  it  was  as  if  a  new  Eve,  watched  over  by 
augels,  had  been  placed  in  the  desecrated  land,  and  the  very 
ground  she  trod  grew  into  paradise. 

Sometimes  the  day  was  sadly  checkered  by  bad  news 
brought  from  the  continent  of  Greece.  Sometimes  it  was 
rendered  joyous  by  the  arrival  of  a  letter  from  her  adored 
father.  Sometimes  he  was  with  her,  and  he,  animated  by 
the  sense  of  danger,  and  the  knowledge  of  his  usefuhiess 
to  the  cause  he  espoused,  was  eloquent  in  his  narrations, 
overflowing  in  his  affection  to  her,  and  almost  happy  in  the 
belief  thai  he  was  atoning  for  the  past.  The  idea  that  he 
should  fall  in  the  fields  of  Greece,  and  wash  out  with  his 
heart's  blood  the  dark  blot  on  his  name,  gave  an  elevation 
to  his  thoughts,  a  strained  and  eager  courage  and  fortitude 
that  accorded  with  his  fiery  character.  He  was  born  to  be 
a  soldier ;  not  the  military  man  of  modern  days,  but  the 
hero  who  exposed  his  life  without  fear,  and  found  joy  in 
battle  and  hard-earned  victory,  when  these  were  sought  and 
won  for  a  good  cause,  from  the  cruel  oppressor. 


CHAPTER  X. 

During  Falkner's  visits  to  Zante,  Elizabeth  had  been  led 
to  remark  the  faithful  attentions  of  his  chief  follower,  an 
Albanian  Greek.  This  man  had  complained  to  his  young  mis- 
tress of  the  recklessness  with  which  Falkner  exposed  him- 
self— of  the  incredible  fatigue  he  underwent — and  his  belief 
that  he  must  ere  long  fall  a  victim  to  his  disdain  of  safety 
and  repose  ;  which,  while  it  augmented  the  admiration  his 
courage  excited,  was  yet  not  called  for  by  the  circumstances 
of  the  times.  He  would  have  been  termed  rash  and  fool- 
hardy, but  that  he  maintained  a  dignified  composure  through- 
out, joined  to  military  skill  and  fertiUty  of  resource ;  and 
while  contempt  of  life  led  him  invariably  to  select  the  post 


FALKNER.  §S 

of  danger  for  himself,  he  was  sedulous  to  preserve  the  lives 
of  those  under  his  command.  His  early  life  had  familiar- 
ized him  with  the  practices  of  war.  He  was  a  valuable  of- 
ficer ;  kind  to  his  men,  and  careful  to  supply  their  wants, 
while  he  contended  for  no  vain  distinctions  ;  and  was  ready, 
on  all  occasions,  to  undertake  such  duties  as  others  shrunk 
•iTom,  as  leading  to  certain  death. 

Elizabeth  listened  to  Vasili's  account  of  his  hairbreadth 
escapes,  his  toils,  and  desperate  valour,  with  tearful  eyes 
and  an  aching  heart.  "  Oh !  that  I  could  attach  him  to  life  !" 
she  thought.  She  never  complained  to  him,  nor  persuaded 
him  to  alter  his  desperate  purpose,  but  redoubled  her  affec- 
tionate attentions.  When  he  left  her,  after  a  hurried  visit, 
she  did  not  beseech  him  to  preserve  himself;  but  her  tear- 
ful eyes,  the  agony  with  which  she  returned  his  parting  em- 
brace, her  despondent  attitude  as  his  bark  left  the  shore  ; 
and,  when  he  returned,  her  eager  joy — her  eye  hghted  up 
with  thankful  love — all  bespoke  emotions  that  needed  no 
other  interpreter,  and  which  often  made  him  half  shrink 
from  acting  up  to  the  belief  he  had  arrived  at,  that  he  ought 
to  die,  and  that  he  could  only  escape  worse  and  ignominious 
evils  by  a  present  and  honourable  death. 

As  time  passed  on — as  by  the  arrival  of  the  forces  from 
Egypt  the  warfare  grew  inore  keen  and  perilous — as  Vasili 
renewed  the  sad  tale  of  his  perils  at  each  visit,  with  some 
added  story  of  lately  and  narrowly  escaped  peril — fear  began 
to  make  too  large  and  engrossing  a  portion  of  her  daily 
thoughts.  She  ceased  to  take  in  the  ideas  as  she  read — 
her  needle  dropped  from  her  hand — and,  as  she  played,  the 
music  brought  streams  of  tears  from  her  eyes,  to  think  of 
the  scene  of  desolation  and  suffering  in  which  she  felt  that 
she  should  soon  be  called  upon  to  take  a  part.  There  was 
no  help  or  hope,  and  she  must  early  learn  the  woman's  first 
and  hardest  lesson,  to  bear  in  silence  the  advance  of  an 
evil  whicli  might  be  avoided,  but  for  the  unconquerable  will 
of  another.  Almost  she  could  have  called  her  father  cruel, 
had  not  the  remembrance  of  the  misery  that  drove  him  to 
desperation  inspired  pity,  instead  of  selfish  resentment. 

He  had  passed  a  few  da)'s  with  her,  and  the  intercourse 
they  held  had  been  more  intimate  and  more  affectionate  than 
ever.  As  she  grew  older,  her  mind,  enriched  by  cultivation, 
and  developed  by  the  ardour  of  her  attachment,  grew  more 
on  an  equality  with  his  experienced  one,  than  could  have 
been  the  case  in  mere  childhood.  They  did  not  take  the 
usual  position  of  father  and  child — the  instructer  and  in- 
structed— the  commander  and  the  obedient — 

"  They  talked  with  open  heart,  and  tongue 
Affectionate  and  true,  j 

A  pair  of  friends."  * 


64  FALKNER. 

And  the  inequality  which  made  her  depend  on  him,  and 
caused  him  to  regard  her  as  the  creature  who  was  to  pro- 
long his  existence,  as  it  were,  beyond  the  grave,  into  vvliich 
he  beheved  himself  to  be  descending,  gave  a  touch  of  some- 
thing melancholy  to  their  sympathy,  without  which,  in  tliis 
shadowy  world,  nothing  seems  beautiful  and  enduring. 

He  left  her  ;  and  his  little  bark,  under  press  of  sail,  sped 
merrily  through  the  waves.  She  stood  to  watch — her  lieart_ 
warmed  by  the  recollection  of  his  fervent  affection — his  at-' 
tentive  kindness.  He  had  ever  been  brave  and  generous ; 
but  now  he  had  become  so  sympathizing  and  gentle,  that 
she  hoped  that  the  time  was  not  far  off  when  moral  courage 
would  spring  from  that  personal  hardihood  which  is  at  once 
so  glorious  and  so  fearful.  "  God  shield  you,  my  father!" 
she  thought,  "  God  preserve  you,  my  more  than  father,  for 
happier  thoughts  and  belter  days  !  For  the  full  enjoyment 
of,  and  control  over,  those  splendid  qualities  witlr  which 
Nature  has  gifted  you  !" 

Such  was  the  tenour  of  her  thoughts.  Enthusiasm  mingled 
with  fond  solicitude — and  thus  she  continued  her  anxious 
watchings.  By  every  opportunity  she  received  brief  letters, 
breathing  affection,  yet  containing  no  word  of  self.  Some- 
times a  phrase  occurred  directing  her  what  to  do  if  anything 
fatal  occurred  to  him,  which  startled  and  pained  her ;  but 
there  was  nothing  else  that  spoke  of  death — nor  any  allusion 
to  his  distaste  for  life.  Autumn  Avas  far  advanced — the 
sounds  of  war  were  somewhat  lulled ;  and,  except  in  small 
skirmishing  parties,  that  met  and  fought  under  cover  of  the 
ravines  and  woods,  all  was  quiet.  Elizabeth  felt  less  fearful 
than  usual.  She  wrote  to  ask  when  Falkner  would  again 
visit  her ;  and  he,  in  reply,  promised  so  to  do  immediately 
after  a  meditated  attack  on  a  small  fortress,  the  carrying  of 
which  was  of  the  first  import  to  the  safe  quartering  of  his 
little  troop  during  the  winter.  She  read  this  with  delight 
— she  solaced  herself  with  the  prospect  of  a  speedier  and 
longer  visit  than  usual ;  with  childish  thoughtlessness  she 
forgot  that  the  attack  on  the  town  was  a  work  of  war,  and 
might  bring  witli  it  the  fatal  results  of  mortal  struggle. 

A  few  days  after,  a  small,  ill-looking  letter  was  put  into 
her  hands — it  was  written  in  Romaic,  and  the  meaning  of 
its  illegible  ciphers  could  only  be  guessed  at  by  a  Greek.  It 
was  from  Vasili — to  tell  her,  in  a  few  words,  that  Falkner 
was  lying  in  a  small  village,  not  far  from  the  seacoast,  op- 
posite Zante.  It  mentioned  that  he  had  been  long  suffering 
from  a  Greek  fever  ;  and  having  been  badly  wounded  in  the 
late  attack,  the  combined  effects  of  wound  and  malady  left 
little  hopes  of  recovery ;  while  the  fatal  moment  was  has- 
tened by  the  absence  of  all  medical  assistance — the  misera- 
ble state  of  the  village  where  he  was  lying— and  the  bad  air 
of  the  country  around. 


FALKNER.  65 

Elizabeth  read  as  if  in  a  dream' — the  moment,  then,  had 
come,  the  fatal  moment  which  she  had  often  contemplated 
with  terror,  and  prayed  Heaven  to  avert — she  grew  pale 
and  trembling  ;  but  again  in  a  moment  she  recalled  her 
presence  of  mind,  and  summoned  all  the  resolution  she  had 
endeavoured  to  store  up  to  assist  her  at  this  extremity. 
She  went  herself  to  the  chief  English  authority  in  the  isl- 
and, and  obtained  an  order  for  a  vessel  to  bring  him  of!'— • 
instantly  she  embarked.  She  neither  wept  nor  spoke  ;  but 
sitting  on  the  deck,  tearless  and  pale,  she  prayed  for  speed, 
and  that  she  might  not  find  him  dead.  A  few  hours  brought 
her  to  the  desired  port.  Here  a  thousand  difficulties  awaited 
her — but  she  was  not  to  be  intimidated  by  all  the  threatened 
dangers — and  only  besought  the  people  about  her  to  admit'of 
no  excuses  for  delay.  She  was  accompanied  by  an  Englisli 
surgeon  and  a  few  attendants.  She  longed  to  outspeed  them 
all,  and  yet  she  commanded  herself  to  direct  everything 
that  was  done ;  nor  did  her  heart  quail  when  a  few  shot, 
and  the  cry  of  the  men  about  her,  spoke  of  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  enemy.  It  proved  a  false  alarm — the  shots  came 
from  a  straggling  party  of  Greeks — salutations  were  ex- 
changed, and  still  she  pushed  on — her  only  thought  was — 
"  Let  me  but  find  him  alive — and  then  surely  he  will  live !" 

As  she  passed  along,  the  sallow  countenances  and  wasted 
figures  of  the  peasants  spoke  of  the  frightful  ravages  of  the 
epidemic  by  which  Falkner  was  attacked — and  the  squalid- 
ness  of  the  cabins  and  the  filth  of  the  villages  were  sights 
to  make  her  heart  ache ;  at  length  they  drew  near  one 
Avhich  the  guide  told  her  was  that  named  by  Vasili.  On 
inquiring,  they  were  directed  down  a  sort  of  lane  to  a 
wretched  dilapidated  dwelling — in  the  courtyard  of  which 
were  a  party  of  armed  Greeks,  gathered  together  in  a  sort 
of  ominous  silence.  This  was  the  abode  of  Falkner  ;  she 
alighted — and  in  a  few  minutes  Vasili  presented  himself — 
his  face  painted  with  every  mark  of  apprehension  and  sor- 
row— he  led  her  on.  The  house  was  desolate  beyond  ex- 
pression— there  was  no  furniture,  no  glass  in  the  windows 
— no  token  of  human  habitation  beyond  the  weather-stained 
walls.  She  entered  tlie  room  where  her  father  lay — some 
mattresses  placed  on  the  divan  were  all  his  bed ;  and  there 
was  nothing  else  in  the  room  except  a  brazier  to  heat  his 
food.  Elizabeth  drew  near — and  gazed  in  awe  and  grief. 
Already  he  was  so  changed  that  she  could  scarcely  know 
him — his  eyes  sunk,  his  cheeks  fallen,  his  brow^  streaked 
with  pallid  hues ;  a  ghastly  shadow  lay  upon  his  face, 
the  apparent  forerunner  of  death.  He  had  scarcely  strength 
sufficient  to  raise  his  hand,  and  his  voice  was  hollow — yet 
he  smiled  when  he  saw  her — and  that  smile,  the  last  refuge 
of  the  soul  that  informs  our  clay,  and  even  sometimes  sur- 
vives it,  was  all  his  own  ;  it  struck  her  to  the  heart — and 
C* 


66  FALKNER. 

her  eyes  were  dimmed  with  tears  while  VasiU  cast  a  wist- 
ful glance  on  her — as  much  as  to  say,  "  I  have  lost  hope  !" 

"Thank  you  for  coming — yet  you  ought  not  to  be  here," 
hoarsely  murmured  the  sick  man.  Elizabeth  kissed  his  hand 
and  brow  in  answer — and,  despite  of  all  her  endeavours,  the 
tears  fell  from  her  eyes  on  his  sunken  cheek ;  again  he 
smiled.  "It  is  not  so  bad,"  he  said;  "  do  not  v/eep,  I  am 
willing  to  die !  I  do  not  suffer  very  much,  though  I  am 
weary  of  life." 

The  surgeon  was  now  admitted.  He  examined  the  wound, 
which  was  of  a  musket  bullet  in  his  side.  He  dressed  it, 
and  administered  some  pcjtion,  from  which  the  patient  re- 
ceived instant  relief  ;  and  then  joined  the  anxious  girl,  who 
had  retired  to  another  room. 

"He  is  in  a  very  dangerous  state,"  the  surgeon  remarked, 
in  reply  to  her  anxious  looks.  "Nothing  certain  can  be 
pronounced  yet.  But  our  first  care  must  be  to  remove  him 
from  this  pestiferous  place — the  fever  and  wound  combined 
must  destroy  him.  Change  of  air  may  produce  an  ameliora- 
tion in  the  former." 

With  all  the  energy  which  was  her  prominent  charactcr- 
'istic,  Elizabeth  caused  a  litter  to  be  prepared,  horses  hired, 
and  everything  arranged  so  that  their  journey  might  be 
commenced  at  daybreak.  Every  one  went  early  to  rest,  to 
enjoy  some  repose  before  the  morrow's  journey,  except 
Elizabeth  ;  she  spent  the  livelong  night  watching  beside 
Falkner,  marking  each  change,  tortured  by  the  groans  that 
escaped  him  in  his  sleep,  or  the  suppressed  complaints  that 
fell  from  his  lips — by  the  restlessness  and  fever  that  rendered 
each  moment  full  of  fate.  The  glimmering  and  dreary  light 
of  the  lamp  increased  even  the  squalid  and  bare  appearance 
of  the  wretched  chamber  in  which  he  lay  ;  Elizabeth  gazed 
for  a  moment  from  the  casement  to  see  how  moved  the 
stars — and  there,  without,  nature  asserted  herself — and  it 
was  the  lovely  land  of  Greece  that  met  her  eyes  ;  the 
southern  night  reigned  in  all  its  beauty — the  stars  hung  re- 
fulgent lamps  in  the  transparent  ether :  the  fire-flies  darted 
and  wheeled  among  the  olive  groves,  or  rested  in  the  myr- 
tle hedges,  flasliing  intermittingly,  and  filling  for  an  instant 
a  small  space  around  them  with  fairy  brightness ;  each  form 
of  tree,  of  rocky  fragment,  and  broken  upland,  lay  in  calm 
and  beautiful  repose  ;  she  turned  to  the  low  couch  on  which 
lay  all  her  hope — her  idolized  father;  the  streaked  brow — 
the  nerveless  hand — half-open  eye,  and  hard  breathing  be- 
tokened a  frightful  stage  of  weakness  and  suffering. 

The  scene  brought  unsought  into  her  mind  the  lines  of 
the  English  poet,  which  so  touchingly  describe  the  desola- 
tion of  Greece — blending  the  idea  of  mortal  suffering  with 
the  long-drawn  calamities  of  that  oppressed  country.  The 
words,  the  lines,  crowded  on  her  memory;  and  a  chord 


FALKNEU.  67 

was  struck  in  her  heart  as  she  ejaculated,  "  No !  no,  not 
so  !  Not  the  first  day  of  death — not  now,  or  ever !"  As  she 
spoke,  she  dissolved  in  tears — and,  weeping  long  and  bit- 
terly, she  became  afterward  calmer — the  rest  of  her  watch 
passed  more  peacefully.  Even  the  patient  suffered  less  as 
night  verged  into  morning. 

At  an  early  hour  all  was  ready.  Falkner  was  placed  in 
the  litter ;  and  the  little  party,  gladly  leaving  the  precincts 
"of  the  miserable  village,  proceeded  slowly  towards  the  sea- 
shore. Every  step  was  replete  with  pain  and  danger.  Eliz- 
abeth was  again  all  herself.  Self-possessed  and  vigilant, 
she  seemed  at  once  to  attain  years  of  experience.  No  one 
could  remember  that  it  was  a  girl  of  sixteen  who  directed 
them.  Hovering  round  the  litter  of  the  wounded  man,  and 
pointing  out  how  best  to  carry  him,  so  that  he  might  suffer 
least — as  the  inequalities  of  the  ground,  the  heights  to  climb, 
and  the  ravines  to  cross,  made  it  a  task  of  difficulty.  Now 
and  then  the  report  of  a  musket  Avas  heard ;  sometimes  a 
Greek  cap,  not  uuoftcn  mistaken  for  a  turban,  peered  above 
the  precipice  that  overlooked  the  road ;  frequent  alarms 
were  given,  but  she  was  frightened  by  none.  Her  large 
eyes  dilated  and  darkened  as  she  looked  towards  the  dan- 
ger pointed  out— and  slie  drew  nearer  the  litter,  as  a  lonely 
mother  might  to  the  cradle  of  her  child,  when  in  the  still- 
ness of  night  some  ravenous  beast  intruded  on  a  savage  sol- 
itude ;  but  she  never  spoke,  except  to  point  out  the  mis- 
takes she  was  the  first  to  perceive — or  to  order  the  men  to 
proceed  lightly,  but  without  fear — nor  to  allow  their  prog- 
ress to  be  checked  by  vain  alarms. 

At  length  the  seashore  was  gained,  and  Falkner  at  last 
placed  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel,  reposing  after  the  torture 
which,  despite  every  care,  the  journey  had  inflicted.  Al- 
ready Elizabeth  believed  that  he  was  saved — and  yet,  one 
glance  at  his  wan  face  and  emaciated  figure  reawakened 
every  fear.  He  looked,  and  all  around  believed  him  to  be, 
a  dying  man. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

Arrived  at  Zante,  placed  in  a  cool  and  pleasant  chamber, 
attended  by  a  skilful  surgeon,  and  watched  over  by  the  un- 
sleeping vigilance  of  Elizabeth,  Falkner  slowly  receded 
from  the  shadow  of  death,  whose  livid  hue  had  sat  upon  his 
countenance.  Still  health  was  far.  His  wound  was  at- 
tended by  bad  symptoms,  and  the  fever  eluded  every  at- 
tempt to  dislodge  it  from  his  frame.     He  was  but  half  saved 


68  FALKNER. 

from  the  grave ;  emaciated  and  feeble,  his  disorder  even 
tried  to  vanquish  his  mind ;  but  that  resisted  with  more  en- 
ergy than  his  prostrate  body.  The  death  he  had  gone  out 
to  seek  he  awaited  with  courage,  yet  he  no  longer  expressed 
an  impatience  of  existence,  but  struggled  to  support  with 
manly  fortitude  at  once  the  inroads  of  disease  and  the  long- 
nourished  sickness  of  his  soul. 

It  had  been  a  hard  trial  to  Elizabeth  to  watch  over  him, 
while  each  day  the  surgeon's  serious  face  gave  no  token  of 
hope.  But  she  would  not  despond,  and  in  the  end  his  re- 
covery was  attributed  to  her  careful  nursing.  She  never 
quitted  his  apartment  except  for  a  few  hours'  sleep ;  and, 
even  then,  her  bed  was  placed  in  the  chamber  adjoining  his. 
If  he  moved,  she  was  roused  and  at  his  side,  divining  the 
cause  of  his  uneasiness,  and  alleviating  it.  There  were 
other  nurses  about  him,  and  Vasili,  the  most  faithful  of  all 
— but  she  directed  them,  and  brought  that  discernment  and 
tact  of  which  a  woman  only  is  capable.  Her  little  soft 
hand  smoothed  his  pillow,  or,  placed  upon  his  brow,  cooled 
and  refreshed  him.  She  scarcely  seemed  to  feel  the  effects 
of  sleepless  nights  and  watchful  days — every  minor  sensa- 
tion was  merged  in  the  hope  and  resolution  to  preserve 
him. 

Several  months  were  passed  in  a  state  of  the  utmost  so- 
licitude. At  last  he  grew  a  little  better — the  fever  inter- 
mitted— and  the  wound  gave  signs  of  healing.  On  the  first 
day  that  he  was  moved  to  an  open  alcove,  and  felt  some 
enjoyment  from  the  soft  air  of  evening,  all  that  Elizabeth 
had  gone  through  was  repaid.  She  sat  on  a  low  cushion 
near;  and  his  thin  fingers,  now  resting  on  her  head,  now 
playing  with  the  ringlets  of  her  hair,  gave  token,  by  that 
caress,  that  though  he  was  silent  and  his  look  abstracted, 
his  thoughts  were  occupied  upon  her.  At  length  he  said — 
"  Elizabeth,  you  have  again  saved  my  life." 

She  looked  up  with  a  quick,  glad  look,  and  her  eyes 
brightened  with  pleasure. 

"  You  have  saved  my  Hfe  twice,"  he  continued ;  "  and 
through  you,  it  seems,  I  am  destined  to  live.  I  will  not 
quarrel  again  with  existence,  since  it  is  your  gift ;  I  will 
hope,  prolonged  as  it  has  been  by  you,  that  it  will  prove 
beneficial  to  you.  I  have  but  one  desire  now — it  is  to  be 
the  source  of  happiness  to  you." 

"  Live  !  dear  fatlier,  live  !  and  I  must  be  happy  !"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"God  grant  that  it  prove  so!"  he  replied,  pressing  her 
hand  to  his  lips.  "  The  prayers  of  such  as  I  too  often  turn 
to  curses.  But  you,  my  own  dearest,  must  be  blessed ;  and 
as  my  life  is  preserved,  I  must  hope  that  this  is  done  for 
your  sake,  and  that  you  will  derive  some  advantage  from  it." 

"  Can  you  doubt  it  V  said  Elizabeth.    "  Could  I  ever  be 


FALKNER.  69 

consoled  if  I  lost  you  ?  I  hiive  no  other  tie  on  earth — no 
other  friend — nor  do  I  wish  for  any.  Only  put  aside  your 
cruel  thoughts  of  leaving  me  for  ever,  and  every  blessing  is 
mine." 

"Dear,  generous,  faithful  giri!  Yet  the  time  will  come 
when  I  shall  not  be  all  in  ail  to  you ;  and  then,  will  not 
my  name — my  adoption — prove  a  stumbling-block  to  your 
wislH?s  V 

■"  How  could  that  happen  V  she  said.  "  But  do  not,  dear 
father,  perplex  yourself  witli  looking -either  forward  or 
backward — repose  on  the  present,  Avhich  has  nothing  in  it 
to  annoy  you  ;  or  rather,  your  gallantry — your  devotion  to 
the  cause  of  an  injured  people,  must  inspire  you  with  feel- 
ings of  self-gratuiation,  and  speak  peace  to  your  troubles. 
Let  the  rest  of  j'our  life  pass  away  as  a  dream ;  banish 
quite  those  thoughts  that  have  hitherto  made  you  wretched. 
Your  life  is  saved,  despite  yourself.  Accept  existence  as  an 
immediate  gift  from  Heaven  ;  and  begin  life,  from  this  mo- 
ment, with  new  hopes,  new  resolves.  Whatever  your  er- 
ror was.  which  you  so  bitterly  repent,  it  belonged  to  an- 
other state  of  being.  Your  remorse,  yoi,ir  resignation,  has 
effaced  it ;  or  if  anj'  evil  results  remain,  you  will  rather  ex- 
ert youmelf  to  repair  them — than  uselessly  to  lament." 

"To  repair  my  error — my  crime!"  cried  Falkner,  in  an 
altered  voice,  while  a  cloud  gathered  over  his  face ;  "  no, 
no !  that  is  impossible  !  never,  till  we  meet  in  another  life, 
can  I  offer  reparation  to  the  dead.  But  I  must  not  think  of 
this  now  ;  it  is  too  ungrateful  to  you  to  dwell  upon  thoughts 
which  would  deliver  me  over  to  the  tomb.  Yet  one  thing  I 
would  say.  I  left  a  short  detail  in  England  of  the  miserable 
event  that  must  at  last  destroy  me,  but  it  is  brief  and  unsat- 
isfactory. During  my  midnight  watchings  in  Greece,  I  pre- 
pared a  longer  account.  You  know  that  little  rosewood 
box,  which,  even  when  dying,  I  asked  for  -,  it  is  now  close 
to  my  bed;  the  key  is  here  attached  to  my  watch-chain. 
That  box  contains  the  narrative  of  my  crime;  when  I  die, 
you  will  read  it  and  judge  me." 

"  Never !  never '."  exclaimed  Elizabeth,  earnestly.  "  Dear 
father,  how  cruelly  you  have  tormented  yourself  by  dwel- 
ling upon  and  writing  about  the  past !  and  do  you  think  that 
I  would  ever  read  accusations  against  you,  the  guardian  an- 
gel of  my  life,  even  though  written  by  yourself?  Let  me 
bring  the  box — let  me  burn  the  papers — let  no  word  remain 
to  tell  of  misery  you  repent,  and  have  atoned  for." 

Falkner  detained  her,  as  she  would  have  gone  to  ex- 
ecute her  purpose.  "  Not  alone  for  you,  my  child,"  he  said, 
"  did  I  write,  though  hereafter,  when  you  hear  me  accused, 
it  may  be  satisfactory  to  learn  the  truth  from  my  own  hand. 
But  there  are  others  to  satisfy — an  injured  angel  to  be  vin- 
dicated— a  frightful  mystery  to  be  unveiled  to  the  world.    I 


70  FALKNER. 

have  waited  till  I  should  die  to  fulfil  this  duty,  and  still,  for 
your  sake,  I  will  wait ;  for  while  you  love  me  and  bear  my 
name,  I  will  not  cover  it  with  obloquy.  But  if  I  die,  this  se- 
cret must  not  die  wiih  me.  I  will  say  no  more  now,  nor  ask 
any  promises :  when  the  time  comes,  you  will  understand 
and  submit  to  the  necessity  that  urged  me  to  disclosure." 

"  You  shall  be  obeyed,  1  promise  you,"  she  replied.  "  I 
will  never  set  my  reason  above  yours,  except  in  asking  you 
to  live  for  the  sake  of  the  poor  little  thing  you  have  pre- 
served." 

"  Have  I  preserved  you,  dearest  ?  I  often  fear  I  did  wrong 
in  not  restoring  you  to  your  natural  relations.  In  making 
you  mine,  and  linking  you  to  my  blighted  fortunes,  I  may 
have  prepared  unnumbered  ills  for  you.  Oh,  how  sad  a  rid- 
dle is  life  !  we  hear  of  the  straight  and  narrow  path  of  right 
in  youth,  and  we  disdain  the  precept;  and  now  would  I 
were  sitting  among  the  nameless  crowd  on  the  common  road- 
side, instead  of  wandering  blindly  in  this  dark  desolation ; 
and  you — I  have  brouglit  you  with  me  into  the  wilderness 
of  error  and  suffering  ;  it  was  wrong — it  was  mere  selfish- 
ness ;  yet  who  could  foresee  ■?" 

"  Talk  not  of  foreseeing,"  said  Elizabeth,  soothingly,  as 
she  pressed  his  thin  hand  to  her  warm  young  lips,  "  think 
only  of  the  present ;  you  have  made  me  yours  for  ever — 
you  cannot  cast  me  off  without  inflicting  real  pangs  of  mis- 
ery, instead  of  those  drea.my  ills  you  speak  of.  I  am  happy 
with  you,  attending  on,  being  of  use  to  you.  What  would 
you  more  T' 

"  Perhaps  it  is  so,"  replied  Falkner,  "  and  your  good  and 
grateful  heart  will  repay  itself  for  all  its  sacrifices.  I  never 
can.  Henceforth  I  will  be  guided  by  you,  my  Elizabeth.  I 
will  no  longer  think  of  what  I  have  done,  and  what  yet 
must  be  suffered,  but  wrap  up  my  existence  in  you ;  live  in 
your  smiles,  your  hopes,  your  affections." 

This  interchange  of  heartfelt  emotions  did  good  to  both. 
Perplexed,  nay,  tormented  by  conflicting  duties,  Falkner 
was  led  by  her  entreaties  to  dismiss  the  most  painful  of  his 
thoughts,  and  to  repose  at  last  on  those  more  healing.  The 
evil  and  the  good  of  the  day  he  resolved  should  henceforth 
be  sufficient;  his  duty  towards  Elizabeth  was  a  primary 
one,  and  he  would  restrict  himself  to  the  performing  it. 

There  is  a  magic  in  sympathy,  and  the  heart's  overflow- 
ing, that  we  feel  as  bliss,  though  we  cannot  explain  it. 
This  sort  of  joy  Elizabeth  felt  after  tliis  conversation  with 
her  father.  Their  hearts  had  united ;  they  had  mingled 
thought  and  sensation,  and  the  intimacy  of  affection  that  re- 
sulted was  an  ample  reward  to  her  for  every  suffering.  She 
loved  her  benefactor  with  inexpressible  truth  and  devoted- 
ness,  and  their  entire  and  full  interchange  of  confidence  gave 
a  vivacity  to  this  sentiment,  which  of  itself  was  happiness. 


FALKNER.  71 


CHAPTER  XII. 

Though  saved  from  immediate  death,  Falkner  could  hardly 
be  called  convalescent.  His  wound  did  not  heal  healthily, 
and  the  intermitting  fever,  returning  again  and  again,  laid  him 
prostrate  after  he  had  acquired  a  little  strength.  After  a 
winter  full  of  danger,  it  was  pronounced  that  the  heats  of  a 
southern  summer  would  probably  prove  fatal  to  him,  and 
that  he  must  be  removed  without  delay  to  the  bracing  air  of 
his  native  country. 

Towards  the  end  of  the  month  of  April  they  took  their 
passage  to  Leghorn.  It  was  a  sad  departure ;  the  more  so 
that  they  were  obliged  to  part  with  their  Greek  servant,  on 
whose  attachment  Elizabeth  so  mucli  depended.  Vasili  had 
entered  into  Falkner's  service  at  the  instigation  of  the  Pro- 
tokleft,  or  chief  of  his  clan;  when  the  Englishman  was 
obliged  to  abandon  the  cause  of  Greece,  and  return  to  his 
own  country,  Vasili,  though  loath  and  weeping,  went  back 
to  his  native  master.  The  young  girl,  being  left  without 
any  attendant  on  whom  she  could  wholly  rely,  felt  singularly 
desolate  ;  for  as  her  father  lay  on  the  deck,  weak  from  the 
exertion  of  being  removed,  she  felt  that  his  life  hung  by  a 
very  slender  thread,  and  she  shrank  half  affrighted  from 
what  might  ensuo  to  her,  friendless  and  alone. 

Her  presence  of  mind  and  apparent  cheerfulness  was 
never,  however,  diminished  by  these  secret  misgivings;  and 
she  sat  by  her  father's  low  couch,  and  placed  her  hands  in 
his,  speaking  encouragingly,  while  her  eyes  filled  with  tears 
as  the  rocky  shores  of  Zante  became  indistinct  and  vanished. 

Their  voyage  was  without  any  ill  accident,  except  that 
the  warm  southeast  wind,  which  favoured  their  navigation, 
sensibly  weakened  the  patient ;  and  Elizabeth  grew  more 
and  more  eager  to  proceed  northward.  At  Leghorn  they 
were  detained  by  a  long  and  vexatious  quarantine.  The 
summer  had  commenced  early,  with  great  heats ;  and  the 
detention  of  several  weeks  in  the  lazaretto  nearly  brought 
about  what  they  had  left  Greece  to  escape.  Falkner  grew 
worse.  The  seabreezes  a  little  mitigated  his  sufferings ; 
but  life  was  worn  away  by  repeated  struggles,  and  the  most 
frightful  debility  threatened  his  frame  with  speedy  dissolu- 
tion. How  could  it  be  otherwise  I  He  had  wished  to  die. 
He  sought  death  where  it  lurked  insidiously  in  the  balmy 
airs  of  Greece,  or  met  it  openly  armed  against  him  on  the 
field  of  battle.  Death  wielded  many  weapons  ;  and  he  was 
struck  by  many,  and  the  most  dangerous.  Elizabeth  hoped, 
in  spite  of  despair ;  yet,  if  called  away  from  him,  her  heart 


72  FALKNEH. 

throbbed  wildly  as  she  re-entered  his  apartment ;  there  was 
no  moment  when  the  fear  did  not  assail  her,  that  she  might, 
on  a  sudden,  hear  and  see  that  all  was  over. 

An  incident  happened  at  this  period,  to  which  Elizabeth 
paid  little  attention  at  the  time,  engrossed  as  she  was  by- 
mortal  fears.  Tliey  had  been  in  quarantine  about  a  fort- 
night, when,  one  day,  there  entered  the  gloomy  precincts  of 
the  lazaretto  a  tribe  of  English  people.  Such  a  horde  of 
men,  women,  and  children,  as  gives  foreigners  a  lively  belief 
that  we  islanders  are  all  mad,  to  migrate  in  this  way,  with,, 
the  young  and  helpless,  from  comfortable  homes,  in  search 
of  the  dangerous  and  comfortless.  This  roving  band  con- 
sisted of  the  eldest  son  of  an  English  nobleman  and  his 
wife — four  children,  the  eldest  being  six  years  old — a  gov- 
erness— three  nursery-maids,  two  lady's  maids,  and  a  suffi- 
cient appendage  of  men-servants.  They  had  all  just  arrived 
from  viewing  the  pyramids  of  Egypt.  The  noise  and  bustle 
— the  servants  insisting  on  making  everybody  comfortable, 
where  comfort  was  not — the  spreading  out  of  all  their  own 
camp  apparatus — ;ioined  to  the  seeming  indifference  of  the 
parties  chiefly  concerned,  and  the  unconstrained  astonish- 
ment of  the  Italians — was  very  amusing.  Lord  Cecil,  a  tall, 
thin,  plain,  quiet,  aristocratic-looking  man  of  middle  age, 
dropped  into  the  first  chair — called  for  his  writing-case — 
began  a  letter,  and  saw  and  heard  nothing  that  was  going 
on.  Lady  Cecil — who  was  not  pretty,  but  lively  and  ele- 
gant— was  surrounded  by  her  children — they  seemed  so 
many  little  angels,  with  blooming  checlvc  and  golden  hair — 
the  youngest  cherub  slept  profoundly  amid  the  din  ;  the 
others  were  looking  eagerly  out  for  their  dinner. 

Elizabeth  had  seen' their  entrance — she  saw  them  walk- 
ing in  the  garden  of  the  lazaretto — one  figure,  the  govern- 
ess, though  disguised  by  a  green  shade  over  her  eyes,  she 
recognised — it  was  Miss  Jervis.  Desolate  and  sad  as  the 
poor  girl  was,  a  familiar  face  and  voice  was  a  cordial  drop 
to  comfort  her  ;  and  Miss  Jervis  was  infinitely  delighted  to 
meet  her  former  pupil.  She  usually  looked  on  those  in- 
trusted to  her  care  as  a  part  of  the  machinery  that  sup- 
ported her  life  ;  but  Ehzabeth  had  become  dear  to  her  from 
the  irresistible  attraction  that  hovered  round  her — arising 
from  her  carelessness  of  self,  and  her  touching  sensibility 
to  the  sufferings  of  all  around.  She  had  often  regretted 
having  left  her,  and  she  now  expressed  this,  and  even  her 
silence  grew  into  something  like  talkativeness  upon  the 
unexpected  meeting.  "  I  am  very  unlucky,"  she  said  ;  "  I 
would  rather,  if  I  could  with  propriety,  live  in  the  meanest 
lodging  in  London,  than  in  the  grandest  tumbledown  palace  of 
the  East,  which  people  are  pleased  to  call  so  fine — I  am 
sure  they  are  always  dirty  and  out  of  order.  Lady  Glenfell 
recommended  me  to  Lady  Cecil — and,  certainiy,  a  more 


PALKNER.  73 

generous  and  sweet-tempered  woman  does  not  exist — and 

I  was  very  comfortable,  living  at  the  Earl  of  G 's  seat  in 

Hampshire,  and  having  almost  all  my  time  to  myself.  One 
day,  to  my  misfortune,  Lady  Cecil  made  a  scheme  to  trav- 
el— to  get  out  of  her  father-in-law's  way,  I  believe — he  is 
rather  a  tiresome  old  man.  Lord  Cecil  does  anything  she 
likes.  All  was  atranged,  and  I  really  thought  I  should 
leave  them — I  so  hated  the  idea  of  going  abroad  again;  but 
Lady  Cecil  said  tliat  I  should  be  quite  a  treasure,  having  been 
everywhere,  and  knowing  so  many  languages,  and  that  she 
should  have  never  thought  of  going,  but  from  my  being  with 
her ;  so,  in  short,  she  was  veiy  generous,  and  I  could  not 
say  no  :  accordingly,  v.e  set  out  on  our  travels,  and  went 
first  to  Portugal — where  1  had  never  been — and  do  not 
know  a  word  of  Portuguese ;  and  then  through  Spain — and 
Spanish  is  Greek  to  me — and  worse — for  I  do  know  a  good 
deal  of  Romaic.  I  am  sure  J  do  not  know  scarcely  where 
we  went — but  our  last  journey  was  to  see  the  pyramids  of 
Egypt — only,  unfortunately,  I  caught  the  ophthalmia  the 
moment  we  got  to  Alexandria,  and  could  never  bear  to  see  a 
ray  of  light  the  whole  time  we  were  in  that  country," 

As  they  talked,  Lady  Cecil  came  to  join  her  children. 
She  was  struck  by  Elizabeth's  beaming  and  noble  counte- 
nance, which  bore  the  impress  of  high  thought  and  elevated 
sentiments.  Her  figure,  too,  had  sprung  up  into  woman- 
hood— tall  and  graceful — there  was  an  elasticity  joined  to 
much  majesty  in  all  her  appearance  ;  not  the  majesty  of  as- 
sumption, but  the  stamp  of  natural  grandeur  of  soul,  refined 
by  education,  and  softened  by  sympathetic  kindness  for  the 
meanest  thing  that  breathed.  Her  dignity  did  not  spring  in 
the  slighte^st  degree  from  self-worship,  but  simply  from  a 
reliance  on  her  own  powders  and  a  forgetfulness  of  every 
triviahty  which  haunts  the  petty- minded.  No  one  could 
chance  to  see  her,  without  stopping  to  gaze  ;  and  her  pecu- 
liar circumstances — the  affectionate  and  anxious  daughter 
of  a  d^ing  man — without  friend  or  support,  except  her  own 
courage  and  patience — never  daunted,  yet  always  fearfully 
alive  to  his  danger — rendered  her  infinitely  interesting  to 
one  of  her  owh  sex.  Lady  Cecil  was  introduced  to  her  by 
Miss  Jei-vis,  and  was  eager  to  show  her  kindness.  She  of- 
fered that  they  should  travel  together ;  but  as  Elizabeth's 
quarantine  was  out  long  before  that  of  the  new  comers, 
and  she  was  anxious  to  reach  a  more  temperate  climate, 
she  refused ;  yet  she  was  thankful,  and  charmed  by  the 
sweetness  and  cordiality  of  her  new  acquaintance. 

Lady  Cecil  was  not  handsome,  but  there  was  something, 
not  exactly  amounting  to  fascination,  but  infinitely  laknig 
in  her  mamier  and  appearance.  Her  cheerfulness,  good- 
nature, and  high-breeding  diffused  a  grace  and  a  pleasu- 
ral)le  easiness  over  her  manners  that  charmed  everybody  ; 
7  D 


74  FALKNER. 

good  sense  and  vivacity,  never  loud  nor  ever  dull,  rendered 
her  spirits  agreeable.  She  w^as  apparently  the  same  to 
everybody;  but  she  well  knew  how  to  regulate  the  inner 
spirit  of  her  attentions  while  their  surface  looked  so  equal : 
no  one  ventured  to  go  beyond  her  wishes — and  where  she 
wished,  any  one  was  astonished  to  find  how  far  they  could 
depend  on  her  sincerity  and  friendliness.  Had  Elizabeth's 
spirit  been  more  free,  she  had  been  delighted  ;  as  it  was,  she 
felt  thankful,  merely  for  a  kindness  that  availed  her  nothing. 

Lady  Cecil  viewed  the  dying  Falkner  and  his  devoted,  af- 
fectionate daughter  with  the  sincerest  compassion  ;  dying 
she  thought  him,  for  he  was  wasted  to  a  shadow,  his  cheeks 
colourless,  his  hands  yellow  and  thin — he  could  not  stand 
upright — and  when,  in  the  cool  of  evening,  he  was  carried 
into  the  open  air,  he  seemed  scarcely  able  to  speak  from  very 
feebleness.  Elizabeth's  face  bespoke  continual  anxiety: 
her  vigilance,  her  patience,  her  grief,  and  her  resignation 
formed  a  touching  picture,  which  it  was  impossible  to  con- 
template without  admiration.  Lady  Cecil  often  tried  to 
vv'in  her  away  from  her  father's  couch,  and  to  give  herself  a 
little  repose  from  perpetual  attendance;  she  yielded  but  for 
a  minute ;  while  she  conversed,  she  assumed  cheerfulness 
— but  in  a  moment  after  she  had  glided  back  and  taken  her 
accustomed  place  at  her  father's  pillow. 

At  length  their  prison-gates  were  opened,  and  Falkner 
was  borne  on  board  a  felucca  bound  for  Genoa.  Elizabeth 
took  leave  of  her  new  friend,  and  promised  to  write,  but 
while  she  spoke  she  forgot  what  she  said — for,  dreading  at 
each  moment  the  death  of  her  benefactor,  she  did  not  dare 
look  forward,  and  had  little  heart  to  go  beyond  the  circle 
of  her  immediate,  though  dreary  sensations.  A  fair  wind 
bore  them  to  Genoa,  and  Falkner  sustained  the  journey 
very  well :  at  Genoa  they  transferred  themselves  to  another 
vessel,  and  each  mile  they  gained  towards  France  lightened 
the  fears  of  Elizabeth.  But  this  portion  of  their  voyage 
was  not  destined  to  be  so  prosperous.  They  had  embarked 
at  night,  and  had  made  some  way  during  the  first  hours ; 
but  by  noon  on  the  following  day  they  were  becalmed  ;  the 
small  vessel — the  burning  sun — the  shocking  smells — the 
want  of  all  comfortable  accommodation,  combined  to  bring 
on  a  relapse — and  again  Falkner  seemed  dying.  The  very 
crew  were  struck  with  pity;  while  Elizabeth,  wild  almost  with 
terror  and  the  impotent  Avish  to  save,  preserved  an  outward 
calm,  more  shocking  almost  than  shrieks  and  cries.  At 
evening  she  caused  him  to  be  carried  on  the  deck,  and 
placed  on  a  couch,  with  a  little  sort  of  shed  prepared  for 
him  there  ;  he  was  too  much  debilitated  to  feel  any  great 
degree  of  relief — there  was  a  ghastly  hue  settled  on  his 
face  that  seemed  gradualh^  sinking  into  death.  Elizabeth's 
courage    almost    gave  way  ;   there  was  no  physician,  no 


FALKNER.  75 

friend  ;  the  servants  were  frightened,  the  crew  pitying,  but 
none  could  lielp. 

As  this  sense  of  desertion  grew  strong,  a  despair  she  had 
never  felt  before  invaded  her  ;  and  it  was  as  she  thus  hung 
over  Falkner's  couch,  the  tears  fast  gathering  in  her  eyes, 
and  striving  to  check  the  convulsive  throb  that  rose  in  her 
throat,  thai  a  gentle  voice  said,  "  Let  me  place  this  pillow 
under  your  father's  head,  he  will  rest  more  quietly."  The 
voice  came  as  from  a  guardian  angel ;  she  looked  up  thank- 
fully, the  pillow  was  placed,  some  drink  administered,  a  sail 
extended,  so  as  to  shield  him  from  the  evening  sun,  and  a 
variety  of  little  attentions  paid,  which  evidently  solaced  the 
invalid ;  and  tlie  evening  breeze  rising  as  the  sun  went 
down,  the  air  grew  cool,  and  he  sunk  at  last  into  a  profound 
sleep.  When  night  came  on,  the  stranger  conjured  Eliza- 
beth to  take  some  repose,  promising  to  watch  by  Falkner. 
She  could  not  resist  the  entreaty,  which  was  urged  with 
sincere  earnestness  ;  going  down,  she  found  a  couch  had 
been  prepared  for  her  with  almost  a  woman's  care  by  the 
stranger ;  and  before  she  slept  he  knocked  at  her  door  to 
tell  her,  Falkner  having  awoke,  expressed  himself  as  much 
easier,  and  very  glad  to  hear  tliat  Elizabeth  had  retired  to 
rest;  after  this  he  had  dropped  asleep  again. 

It  was  a  new  and  pleasant  sensation  to  th.e  lone  girl  to 
feel  that  there  was  one  sharing  her  task,  on  whom  she 
might  rely.  She  had  scarcely  looked  at  or  attended  to  the 
stranger  while  on  deck  ;  she  only  perceived  that  he  was 
English,  and  that  he  was  young  ;  but  now,  in  the  quiet  that 
preceded  her  falling  asleep,  his  low,  melodious  voice  sounded 
sweetly  in  her  ears,  and  the  melancholy  and  earnest  ex- 
pression of  his  handsome  countenance  reminded  her  of 
some  one  she  had  seen  before,  probably  a  Greek  ;  for  there 
was  something  almost  foreign  in  his  olive  complexion,  his 
soft,  dark  eyes,  and  the  air  of  sentiment  mingled  with  a  sort 
of  poetic  fervour,  that  characterized  his  countenance.  With 
these  thoughts  Elizabeth  fell  asleep;  and  when  early  in  the 
morning  she  rose,  and  made  what  haste  she  could  to  visit 
the  little  sort  of  hut  erected  for  her  father  on  deck,  the  first 
person  she  saw  was  the  stranger,  leaning  on  the  bulwark, 
and  looking  on  the  sea  with  an  air  of  softness  and  sadness 
that  excited  her  sympathy.  He  greeted  her  with  extreme 
kijidness.  "  Your  father  is  awake,  and  has  inquired  for 
you,"  he  said.  Elizabeth,  after  thanking  him,  took  her  ac- 
customed post  beside  Falkner.  He  might  be  better,  but  he 
was  too  weak  to  make  much  sign,  and  one  glance  at  his 
colourless  face  renewed  all  her  half-forgntten  terrors. 

Meanwliile  the  breeze  freshened,  and  the  vessel  scudded 
through   the  blue  sparkling  waves.     The    heats    of   noon, 
though  tempered  by  the  gale,  still  had  a  bad  effect  on  Falk- 
ner ;  and  when,  at  about  five  in  the  evening — often  in  the 
D  2 


76  FALKNER. 

south  the  hottest  portion  of  the  day,  the  air  being  thor- 
oughly penetrated  by  the  sun's  rays — they  arrived  at  Mar- 
seilles, it  became  a  task  of  some  difficulty  to  remove  him. 
Elizabeth  and  the  stranger  had  interchanged  little  talk  du- 
ring the  day  ;  but  he  now  came  forward  to  assist  in  remo- 
ving him  to  the  boat — acting  without  question,  as  if  he  had 
been  her  brother,  guessing,  as  if  by  instinct,  the  best  thing 
to  be  done,  and  performing  all  with  activity  and  zeal.  Poor 
Elizabeth,  cast  on  these  difficult  circumstances,  without  re- 
lation or  friend,  looked  on  him  as  a  guardian  angel,  con- 
sulted him  freely,  and  witnessed  his  exertions  in  her  behalf 
in  a  transport  of  gratitude.  He  did  everything  for  her,  and 
would  sit  for  hours  in  the  room  at  the  hotel,  next  to  that  in 
which  Falkner  lay,  waiting  to  hear  how  he  was,  and  if  there 
was  anything  to  be  done.  Elizabeth  joined  him  now  and 
then ;  they  were  in  a  manner  already  intimate,  though 
strangers  ;  he  took  a  lively  interest  in  her  anxieties,  and  she 
looked  towards  him  for  advice  and  help,  relied  on  his  coun- 
sels, and  was  encouraged  by  his  consolations.  It  was  the 
first  time  she  had  felt  any  friendship  or  confidence,  except 
in  Falkner  ;  but  it  was  impossible  not  to  be  won  by  her  new 
friend's  gentleness,  and  almost  feminine  delicacy  of  atten- 
tion, joined  to  all  a  man's  activity  and  readiness  to  do  the 
thing  that  was  necessary  to  be  done.  "  I  have  an  adopted 
father,"  thought  Elizabeth,  "  and  this  seems  a  brother 
dropped  from  the  clouds."  He  was  of  an  age  to  be  her 
brother,  but  few  years  older ;  in  all  the  ardour  and  grace  of 
eax'ly  manhood,  when  developed  in  one  of  happy  nature  un- 
soiled  by  the  world. 

Elizabeth,  however,  remained  but  a  few  days  at  Mar- 
seilles— it  was  of  the  first  necessity  to  escape  the  southern 
heats,  and  Falkner  was  pronounced  able  to  bear  the  voyage 
up  the  Rhone.  The  stranger  showed  some  sadness  at  the 
idea  of  being  left  behind.  In  truth,  if  Elizabeth  was  glad- 
dened and  comforted  by  her  new  friend,  he  felt  double  pleas- 
ure in  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty  and  admirable  quali- 
ties. No  word  of  self  ever  passed  her  lips.  All  thought, 
all  care,  was  spent  on  him  she  called  her  father — and  the 
stranger  was  deeply  touched  by  her  demonstrations  of  filial 
affection — her  total  abnegation  of  every  feeling  that  did  not 
centre  in  his  comfort  and  recovery.  He  had  been  present 
one  evening,  though  standing  apart,  when  Falkner,  awaken- 
ing from  sleep,  spoke  with  regret  of  the  fatigue  Elizabeth 
endured,  and  the  worthlessness  of  his  life  compared  with  all 
that  she  went  through  for  his  sake.  Elizabeth  replied  at 
once  with  such  energy  of  affection,  such  touching  represent- 
ation of  the  comfort  she  derived  from  his  returning  health, 
and  such  earnest  entreaties  for  him  to  love  life,  that  the 
stranger  listened  as  if  an  angel  spoke.  Falkner  answered, 
but  the  remorse  that  burdened  his  heart  gave  something  of 


FALKNER.  77 

bitterness  to  his  reply.  And  her  eloquent  though  gentle  so- 
licitations that  he  would  look  on  life  in  a  better  and  nobler 
light — not  raslily  to  leave  its  duties  here  to  encounter  those 
he  knew  not  of  in  an  existence  beyond — and  kind  intima- 
tions, which,  exalting  his  repentance  into  a  virtue,  might 
reconcile  him  to  himself — all  this  won  the  listener  to  a  deep 
and  wondering  admiration.  Not  in  human  form  had  he  ever 
seen  imbodied  so  much  wisdom,  and  so  much,  strong  yet 
tender  emotion — none  but  woman  could  feel  thus,  but  it  was 
bej'ond  woman  to  speak  and  to  endure  as  slie  did.  She 
spoke  only  just  so  openly,  remembering  the  stranger's  pres- 
ence, as  to  cast  a  veil  over  her  actual  relationship  to  Falk- 
ner,  whom  she  called,  and  wished  to  have  believed  to  be, 
her  true  father. 

The  fever  of  the  sufferer  being  abated,  a  day  was  fixed  for 
their  departure  from  Marseilles.  Tlieir  new  friend  appeared 
to  show  some  inclination  to  accompany  them  in  their  river 
navigation  as  far  as  Lyons.  Elizabeth  thanked  him  with 
her  gladdened  eyes ;  she  had  felt  the  want  of  support,  or 
rather  she  had  experienced  the  inestimable  benefit  of  being 
supported  during  the  sad  crisis  now  and  then  brought  about 
by  Falkner's  changeful  illness ;  there  was  something,  too, 
in  the  slra  iger  very  attractive,  not  the  less  so  for  the  mel- 
ancholy which  often  quenched  the  latent  fire  of  his  nature. 
That  his  disposition  was  really  ardent,  and  even  vivacious, 
many  little  incidents,  when  he  appeared  to  forget  himself, 
evinced — nay,  sometimes  his  very  gloom  merged  into  sullen 
savageness,  that  showed  that  coldness  was  not  the  secret 
of  his  frequent  fits  of  abstraction.  Once  or  twice,  on  these 
occasions,  Elizabeth  was  reminded,  she  knew  not  of  whom 
— ^but  some  one  she  had  seen  before — till  one  day  it  flashed 
across  her;  could  it  be  the  sullen,  solitary  boy  of  Baden  ! 
Singularly  enough,  she  did  not  even  know  her  new  friend's 
name  ;  to  those  accustomed  to  foreign  servants  this  will  not 
appear  strange ;  he  was  their  only  visiter,  and  "  le  mon- 
sieur" was  sufficient  announcement  when  he  arrived.  But 
Elizabeth  remembered  well  that  the  youth's  name  was  Ne- 
ville— and,  on  inquiry,  she  learned  that  this  also  was  the  ap- 
pellation of  her  new  acquaintance. 

Siie  now  regarded  him  with  greater  interest.  She  recalled 
her  girlish  wish  that  he  should  reside  with  them,  and  benefit 
by  the  kindness  of  Falkner — hoping  that  his  suUcnness 
would  be  softened  and  his  gloom  dissipated  by  the  affec- 
tionate attentions  he  would  receive.  She  wished  to  discover 
in  what  degree  time  and  other  circumstances  had  operated 
to  bring  about  the  amelioration  she  had  wished  to  be  an  in- 
strument in  achieving.  He  was  altered — he  was  no  longer 
fierce  nor  sullen — yet  he  was  still  melancholy,  and  still  un- 
happy— and  she  could  discern  that  as  his  former  mood  had 
been  produced  by  the  vehemence  of  his  cliaracter  fretting 


78  FALKNER. 

against  the  misfortunes  of  his  lot,  so  it  was  by  subduing 
every  violence  of  temper  that  the  change  was  operated — 
and  she  suspected  that  tlie  causes  that  originally  produced 
his  unhappiness  still  remained.  Yet  violence  of  temper  is 
not  a  right  word  to  use  ;  his  temper  was  eminently  sweet — 
he  had  a  boiling  ardour  within — a  fervent  and  a  warm  heart, 
which  might  produce  vehemence  of  feeling,  but  never  as- 
perity of  temper.  All  this  Elizabeth  remarked — and,  as  be- 
fore, she  longed  to  dissipate  the  melancholy  that  so  evi- 
dently clouded  his  mind ;  and  again  she  indulged  fancies 
that,  if  he  accompanied  them,  and  was  drawn  near  them, 
the  affection  he  would  receive  must  dissipate  a  sadness  cre- 
ated by  unfortunate  circumstances  in  early  youth — but  not 
the  growth  of  a  saturnine  disposition.  She  pitied  him  in- 
tensely, for  she  saw  that  he  was  often  speechlessly  wretch- 
ed ;  but  she  reverenced  his  self-control,  and  the  manner  in 
which  he  threw  off  all  his  own  engrossing  feeUngs  to  sym- 
pathize with  and  assist  her. 

They  were  now  soon  to  depart,  and  Elizabeth  was  not 
quite  sure  whether  Neville  was  to  accompany  them — he  had 
gone  to  the  boat  to  look  after  some  arrangements  made  for 
the  patient's  comfort — and  she  sat  with  the  invalid,  expect- 
ing his  return.  Falkner  reclined  near  a  window,  clasping 
her  hand,  looking  on  her  with  fondness,  and  speaking  of  all 
he  owed  her ;  and  how  he  would  endeavour  to  repay,  by 
living,  and  making  life  a  blessing  to  her.  "  1  shall  live,"  he 
said ;  "  I  feel  that  this  malady  will  pass  away,  and  I  shall 
live  to  devote  myself  to  rewarding  you  for  all  your  anxie- 
ties, to  dissipating  the  cloud  with  which  I  have  so  cruelly 
overshadowed  your  young  life,  and  to  making  all  the  rest 
sunshine.  I  will  think  only  of  you;  all  the  rest,  all  that 
grieves  me,  and  all  that  I  repent,  I  cast  even  now  into  obliv- 
ion." 

At  this  moment  the  stranger  entered  and  drew  near.  Eliz- 
abeth saw  him,  and  said,  "And  here,  dearest  father,  is 
another  to  whom  you  owe  more  than  you  can  guess — for 
kindness  to  me  and  the  help  to  you.  I  do  not  think  I  should 
have  preserv.ed  you  without  Mr.  Neville." 

The  young  man  was  standing  near  the  couch,  looking  on 
the  invalid,  and  rejoicing  in  the  change  for  the  better  that 
appeared.  Falkner  turned  his  eyes  on  him  as  Elizabeth 
spoke,  a  tremour  ran  through  all  his  limbs,  he  grew  ghastly 
pale,  and  fainted. 

An  evil  change  from  this  time  appeared  in  his  state — 
and  the  physician  was  afraid  of  the  journey,  attributing  his 
fainting  to  his  inability  to  bear  any  excitement ;  while 
Falkner,  who  was  before  passive,  grew  eager  to  depart. 
**  Change  of  scene  and  moving  will  do  me  good,"  he  said, 
"  so  that  no  one  comes  near  me,  no  one  speaks  to  me,  but 
Ehzabeth." 


FALKNER.  79 

At  one  time  the  idea  of  Neville's  accompanying  them  was 
alluded  to — he  was  greatly  disturbed — and  seriously  im- 
plored Elizabeth  not  to  allow  it.  It  was  rather  hard  on  the 
poor  girl,  who  found  so  much  support  and  solace  in  her  new 
friend's  society — but  Falkner's  slightest  wish  was  with  her 
a  law,  and  she  submitted  without  a  murmur,  "  Do  not  let 
me  even  see  him  before  we  go,"  said  Falkner.  "  Act  on 
this  wish,  dearest,  without  hurting  his  feelings — without  be- 
traying to  him  that  I  have  formed  it — it  would  be  an  ungra- 
cious return  for  the  services  he  has  rendered  you — for 
which  I  would  fain  show  gratitude ;  but  that  cannot  be — 
you  alone  can  repay — do  so,  as  you  best  may,  with  thanks 
— but  do  not  let  me  see  him  more." 

Elizabeth  wondered  ;  and,  as  a  last  effort  to  vanquish  his 
dislike,  she  said,  "  Do  you  know  that  he  is  the  same  boy 
who  interested  us  so  much  at  Baden  1 — he  is  no  longer  sav- 
age as  he  was  then — but  I  fear  that  he  is  as  unhappy  as 
ever." 

"  Too  well  do  I  know  it,"  replied  Falkner ;  "  do  not  ques- 
tion me — do  not  speak  to  me  again  of  him."  He  spoke  in 
disjointed  sentences — a  cold  dew  stood  on  his  brow — and 
Elizabeth,  who  knew  that  a  mysterious  wound  rankled  in 
his  heart,  more  painful  than  any  physical  injury,  was  eager 
to  calm  him.  Something,  she  might  wonder ;  but  she 
thought  more  of  sparing  Falkner  pain  than  of  satisfying  her 
curiosity,  and  she  mentally  resolved  never  to  mention  the 
name  of  Neville  again. 

They  were  to  embark  at  sunrise  ;  in  the  evening  her  new 
friend  came  to  take  leave,  she  having  evaded  the  notion 
of  his  accompanying  them,  and  insisted  that  he  should  not 
join  them  in  the  morning  to  assist  at  their  departure. 
Though  she  had  done  this  with  sweetness,  and  so  much 
cordiality  of  manner  as  prevented  his  feeling  any  sort  of 
slight,  yet  in  some  sort  he  guessed  that  they  wished  to 
dismiss  him,  and  this  notion  added  to  his  melancholy,  while 
some  latent  feeling  made  him  readily  acquiesce  in  it,  Eliz- 
abeth was  told  that  he  had  come,  and  left  Falkner  to  join 
him.  It  was  painful  to  her  to  take  leave — to  feel  that  she 
should  see  him  no  more— and  to  know  that  tlieir  separation 
was  not  merely  casual,  but  occasioned  by  her  father's  choice, 
which  hereafter  might  again  and  again  interfere  to  separate 
them.  As  she  entered  the  room  he  was  leaning  against 
the  casement,  and  looking  on  the  sea  which  glanced  before 
their  windows,  still  as  a  lake,  blue  as  the  twilight  sky  that 
bent  over  it.  It  was  a  July  evening — soft,  genial,  and  sooth- 
ing: but  no  portion  of  the  gladness  of  nature  was  reflected 
in  the  countenance  of  Neville.  His  large  dark  eyes  seemed 
two  wells  of  unfathomable  sadness.  The  drooping  lids 
gave  them  an  expression  of  irresistible  softness,  which  added 
interest  to  their  melancholy  earnestness.     His  complexiou 


80  FALKNER. 

was  olive,  but  so  clear  that  each  vein  r-ould  be  discerned. 
His  full  and  finely-shaped  lips  bespoke  the  ardour  and  sen- 
sibility of  his  disposition;  while  his  slim,  youthful  form  ap- 
peared half  bending  with  a  weight  of  thought  and  sor- 
row. Elizabeth's  heart  beat  as  she  came  near  and  stood 
beside  him.  Neither  spoke ;  but  he  took  her  hand — and 
they  both  felt  that  each  regretted  the  moment  of  parting  too 
deeply  for  the  mere  ceremony  of  thanks  and  leave-taking. 

"  I  have  grieved,"  said  Neville,  as  if  answering  her,  though 
no  word  had  been  said,  "  very  much  grieved  at  the  idea  of 
seeing  you  no  more ;  and  yet  it  is  for  the  best,  I  feel — and 
am  sure.  You  do  not  know  the  usual  unhappy  tenour  of  my 
thoughts,  nor  the  cause  I  have  to  look  on  life  as  an  unwel- 
come burden.  This  is  no  new  sentiment — it  has  been  my 
companion  since  I  was  nine  years  old.  At  one  tinxe,  before 
I  knew  how  to  rein  and  manage  it,  it  was  more  intolerable 
than  now  ;  as  a  boy,  it  drove  me  to  solitude — to  abhorrence 
of  the  sight  of  man — to  anger  against  God  for  creating  me. 
These  feelings  have  passed  away ;  nay,  more — I  live  for  a 
purpose — a  sacred  purpose,  that  shall  be  fulfilled  despite  of 
every  obstacle — every  seeming  impossibility.  Too  often, 
indeed,  the  difficulties  in  my  way  have  made  me  fear  that  I 
should  never  succeed,  and  I  have  desponded  ;  but  never,  till 
I  saw  you,  did  I  know  pleasure  unconnected  with  my  ulti- 
mate object.  With  you  I  have  been  at  times  taken  out  of 
myself;  and  I  have  almost  forgotten — this  must  not  be.  I 
must  resume  my  burden,  nor  form  one  thought  beyond  the 
resolution  I  have  made  to  die,  if  need  be,  to  secure  success." 

"  You  must  not  speak  thus,"  said  Elizabeth,  looking  at  once 
with  pity  and  admiration  on  a  face  expressive  of  so  much 
sensitive  pride  and  sadness  springing  from  a  sense  of  in- 
jury. "  If  your  purpose  is  a  good  one,  as  I  must  believe 
that  it  is,  you  will  either  succeed,  or  receive  a  compensa- 
tion from  your  endeavours  equivalent  to  success.  We  shall 
meet  again,  and  I  shall  see  you  happier." 

"  When  I  am  happier,"  he  said,  with  more  than  his  usual 
earnestness,  "  we  shall  indeed  meet — for  I  will  seek  you  at 
the  farthest  end  of  the  globe.  Till  then,  I  shrink  from  see- 
ing any  one  who  interests  me — or  from  renewing  sentiments 
of  friendship  which  had  better  end  here.  You  are  too  good 
and  kind  not  to  be  made  unliappy  by  the  sight  of  suffering, 
and  I  must  suffer  till  my  end  is  accomplished.  Even  now 
I  regret  that  I  ever  saw  you — though  that  feeling  springs 
from  a  foolish  pride.  For  hereafter  you  will  hear  my  name 
— and  if  }"ou  already  do  not  know — you  will  learn  the  mis- 
erable tale  tliat  hangs  upon  it — you  will  hear  me  commis- 
erated;  you  will  learn  why — and  share  the  feeling.  I 
would  even  avoid  your  pity — ^judge,  then,  how  loathsome  it 
is  to  receive  that  of  others ;  and  yet  I  must  bear  it,  or  fly 
them  as  I  do.     This  will  change.     I  have  the  fullest  conli- 


FALKNER.  81 

dcnce  that  one  day  I  may  throw  back  on  others  the  slur 
now  cast  upon  me.  This  confidence,  this  full  and  sanguine 
trust,  has  altered  me  from  what  I  once  was;  it  has  changed 
the  impatience,  the  almost  ferocity  I  felt  as  a  boy,  into  for- 
titude and  resolution." 

"  Yes,"  said  Elizabeth,  "I  remember  once  I  saw  you  a 
long  time  since,  when  I  was  a  mere  girl,  at  Baden.  Were 
you  not  there  about  four  years  ago  ?  Do  you  not  remember 
falling  with  your  horse  and  dislocating  your  wrist  1" 

A  tracery  of  strange  wild  thought  came  over  the  coun- 
tenance of  Neville.  "Do  I  remember V  he  cried — "yes — 
and  I  remember  a  beautiful  girl — and  I  thought  such  would 
have  been  my  sister,  and  I  had  not  been  alone — if  fate,  if 
cruel,  inexorable,  horrible  destiny  had  not  deprived  me  of 
her  as  well  as  all — all  that  made  my  childish  existence 
paradise.  It  is  so — and  I  see  you  again,  whom  then  my 
heart  called  sister — it  is  strange." 

"  Did  you  give  me  that  name  ]"  said  Elizabeth.  "  Ah,  if 
you  knew  the  strange  ideas  I  then  had  of  giving  you  my 
father  for  your  friend,  instead  of  one  spoken  harshly — per- 
haps unjustly  of — " 

As  she  spoke  he  grew  gloomy  again — his  eyes  drooped, 
and  the  expression  of  his  face  became  at  first  despondent, 
then  proud,  and  even  fierce ;  it  reminded  her  more  forcibly 
than  it  had  ever  done  before  of  the  boy  of  Baden — "  It  is 
better  as  it  is,"  he  continued,  "  much  belter  that  you  do  not 
share  the  evil  that  pursues  me ;  you  ought  not  to  be  humil- 
iated, pressed  down — goaded  to  hatred  and  contempt. 

"  Farewell — I  grieve  to  leave  you — yet  I  feel  deeply  how 
it  is  for  the  best.  Hereafter  you  will  acknowledge  your 
acquaintance  with  me,  when  we  meet  in  a  happier  hour. 
God  preserve  you  and  your  dear  father,  as  he  will  for  your 
sake  !  Twice  we  have  met — the  third  time,  if  sibyls'  tales 
are  true,  is  the  test  of  good  or  evil  in  our  friendship — till 
then,  farewell." 

Thus  they  parted.  Had  Elizabeth  been  free  from  care 
with  regard  to  Falkner,  she  had  regretted  the  separation 
more,  and  pondered  more  over  the  mysterious  wretched- 
ness that  darkened  the  lives  of  the  only  two  beings,  the 
inner  emotions  of  whose  souls  had  been  opened  to  her. 
As  it  was,  she  returned  to  watch  and  fear  beside  her  fa- 
ther's couch — and  scarcely  to  remember  that  a  few  minutes 
before  she  had  been  interested  by  another — so  entirely 
were  here  feelings  absorbed  by  her'aflection  and  sohcitud© 
for  him. 

D  3 


82  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

From  this  time  their  homeward  journey  was  more  pros- 
perous. They  arrived  safely  at  Lyons,  and  thence  pro- 
ceeded to  Basle — to  take  advantage  again  of  river  naviga- 
tion ;  the  motion  of  a  carriage  being  so  inimical  to  the 
invalid.  They  proceeded  down  the  Rhine  to  Rotterdam, 
and  crossing  the  sea,  returned  at  last  to  England,  after  an 
absence  of  four  years. 

This  journey,  though  at  first  begun  in  terror  and  danger, 
grew  less  haza'rdous  at  each  mile  they  traversed  towards 
the  North ;  and  while  going  down  the  Rhine,  Falkner  and 
his  adopted  daughter  spent  several  tranquil  and  happj^  hours 
" — comparing  the  scenery  they  saw  to  other  and  distant 
landscapes — and  recalling  incidents  that  had  occurred  many 
years  jvgo.  Falkner  exerted  himself  for  Elizabeth's  sake — 
she  had  suffered  so  much,  and  he  had  inflicted  so  much  an- 
guish upon  her  while  endeavouring  to  free  himself  from  the 
burden  of  life,  that  he  felt  remorse  at  having  thus  trifled 
with  the  deepest  emotions  of  her  heart — and  anxious  to 
recall  the  more  pleasurable  sensations  adapted  to  her  age. 
The  listless,  yet  pleasing  feelings  attendant  on  convalscence 
influenced  his  mind  also — and  he  enjoyed  a  peace  to  which 
he  had  long  been  a  stranger. 

Elizabeth,  it  is  true,  had  another  source  of  revery  besides 
that  ministered  to  her  by  her  father.  She  often  thought  of 
Neville ;  and  though  he  was  sad,  the  remembrance  of  him 
was  full  of  pleasure.  He  had  been  so  kind,  so  sympathizing, 
so  helpful  ;  besides,  there  was  a  poetry  in  his  very  gloom 
that  added  a  charm  to  every  thought  spent  upon  him.  She 
did  not  only  recall  his  conversation,  but  conjectured  the 
causes  of  his  sorrow,  and  felt  deeply  interested  by  the 
mystery  that  hung  about  him.  So  young  and  so  unhappy  ! 
And  he  had  been  long  so — he  was  more  miserable  when  they 
saw  him  roving  wildly  among  the  Alsatian  hills.  What 
could  it  mean  1  She  strove  to  recollect  what  Miss  Jervis 
mentioned  at  that  time ;  she  remembered  only  that  he  had 
no  mother,  and  that  his  father  was  severe  and  unkind. 

Yet  why,  when  nature  is  so  full  of  joyousness,  when,  at 
Jlie  summer  season,  vegetation  basks  in  beauty  and  delight, 
and  the  very  clouds  seem  to  enjoy  their  aerial  abode  in 
upper  sky,  why  should  misery  find  a  home  in  the  mind  of 
man  ]  a  misery  which  the  balmy  winds  will  not  lull,  nor  the 
verdant  landscape  and  its  winding  river  dissipate.  She 
thought  thus  as  she  saw  Falkner  rechning  apart,  a  cloud 


FALKNER.  63 

gathered  on  his  brow,  his  piercing  eyes  fixed  in  vacancy,  as 
if  it  beheld  there  a  heart-moving  tragedy ;  but  she  was  ac- 
customed to  his  melancholy,  she  had  ever  known  him  as  a 
man  of  sorrows;  he  had  lived  long  before  she  knew  him, 
and  the  bygone  years  were  filled  by  events  pregnant  with 
wretchedness,  nay,  if  he  spoke  truth,  with  guilt.  But  Ne- 
ville, the  young,  the  innocent,  who  had  been  struck  in  boy- 
hood through  no  fault  of  his  own,  nor  any  act  in  which  he 
bore  a  part ;  was  there  no  remedy  for  him  ]  and  would  not 
friendship,  and  kindness,  and  the  elastic  spirit  of  youth 
suffice  to  cure  his  vrouiid?  She  remembered  that  he  de- 
clared that  he  had  an  aim  iu  view,  in  which  he  resolved  to 
succeed,  and,  succeeding,  he  should  be  happy  :  a  noble  aim 
doubtless  ;  for  his  soft  eyes  lighted  joyously  up,  and  his  face 
expressed  a  glad  pride  when  he  prognosticated  ultimate 
triumph.  Her  heart  went  with  him  in  his  efforts ;  she  prayed 
earnestly  for  his  success,  and  was  as  sure  as  he  that  Heaven 
would  favour  an  object  which  she  felt  certain  was  generous 
and  pure. 

A  sigh,  a  half  groan  from  Falkner,  called  her  to  his  side, 
while  she  meditated  on  these  things.  Both  sutfer,  she 
thought ;  would  that  some  Imk  united  them,  so  that  both 
might  find  relief  in  the  accomplishment  of  the  same  re- 
solves !  Little  did  she  think  of  the  real  link  that  existed, 
mysterious,  yet  adamantine  ;  that  to  pray  for  the  success  of 
one  was  to  solicit  destruction  for  the  other.  A  dark  veil 
was  before  her  eyes,  totally  impervious ;  nor  did  she  know 
that  the  withdrawing  it,  as  was  soon  to  be,  would  deliver  her 
over  to  conflicting  duties,  sad  struggles  of  feeling,  and  stain 
her  life  with  the  dark  hues  that  now,  missing  her,  blotted  the 
existence  of  the  two  upon  earth  for  whom  she  was  most 
interested. 

They  arrived  in  London.  Falkner's  fever  was  gone,  but 
his  wound  was  rankling,  painful,  and  even  dangerous.  The 
bullet  had  grazed  the  bone,  and  this,  at  first  neglected,  and 
afterward  improperly  treated,  now  betrayed  symptoms  of 
exfoliation ;  his  sufferings  were  great — he  bore  them  pa- 
tiently ;  he  looked  on  them  as  an  atonement.  He  had  gone 
out  in  his  remorse  to  die — he  was  yet  to  Uve,  broken  and 
destroyed  ;  and  if  suffered  J;o  live,  was  it  not  for  Elizabeth's 
sake  1  and  having  bound  her  fate  to  his,  what  right  had  he 
to  die  1  The  air  of  London  being  injurious,  and  yet  it  being 
necessary  to  continue  in  the  vicinity  of  the  most  celebrated 
surgeons,  they  took  a  pleasant  villa  on  Wimbledon  Com- 
mon, situated  in  the  midst  of  a  garden,  and  presenting  to 
the  eye  that  mixture  of  neatness,  seclusion,  and  comfort 
that  renders  some  of  our  smaller  English  country-houses  so 
delightful.  Elizabeth,  despite  her  wanderings,  had  a  true 
feminine  love  of  home.  She  busied  herself  in  adding  ele- 
gance to  their  dwelling,  by  a  thousand  little  arts,  wliich 


84  FALKNER. 

seem   nothing,   and  are    everything  in  giving  grace   and 
cheerfulness  to  an  abode. 

Their  hfe  became  tranquil,  and  a  confidence  and  friend- 
ship existed  between  them,  the  source  of  a  thousand  pleas- 
ant conversations  and  happy  hours.  One  subject,  it  is  true, 
was  forbidden  ;  the  name  of  Neville  was  never  mentioned ; 
perhaps,  on  that  very  account,  it  assumed  more  power  over 
Elizabeth's  imagination.  A  casual  intercourse  with  one, 
however  interesting,  might  have  faded  into  the  common 
light  of  day,  had  not  the  silence  enjoined  kept  liim  in 
that  indistinct,  mysterious  darkness  so  favourable  to  the 
processes  of  the  imagination.  On  every  other  subject, 
the  so  called  father  and  daughter  talked  with  open  heart, 
and  Falkner  was  totally  unaware  of  a  secret  growth  of 
unspoken  interest  which  had  taken  root  in  separation  and 
secrecy. 

Elizabeth,  accustomed  to  fear  death  for  one  dearest  to 
her,  and  to  contemplate  its  near  approaches  so  often,  had 
something  holy  and  solemn  kneaded  into  the  very  elements 
of  her  mind,  that  gave  sublimity  to  her  thoughts,  resigna- 
tion to  her  disposition,  and  a  stirring,  inquiring  spirit  to  her 
conversation,  which,  separated  as  they  were  from  the  busy 
and  trivial  duties  of  Hfe,  took  from  the  monotony  and  still- 
ness of  their  existence,  by  bringing  thoughts  beyond  the 
world  to  people  the  commonplace  of  each  day's  routine. 
Falkner  had  not  much  of  this  ;  but  he  had  a  spirit  of  obser- 
vation, a  ready  memory,  and  a  liveliness  of  expression  and 
description  which  corrected  her  wilder  flights,  and  gave  the 
interest  of  flesh  and  blood  to  her  fairy  dreams.  When  they 
read  of  the  heroes  of  old,  or  the  creations  of  the  poets,  she 
dwelt  on  the  moral  to  be  deduced,  the  theories  of  life  ;md 
death,  religion  and  virtue,  therein  displayed;  while  he  com- 
pared them  to  his  own  experience,  criticised  their  truth,  and 
gave  pictures  of  real  human  nature,  either  contrasting  with, 
or  resembling,  those  presented  on  the  written  page. 

Their  lives,  thus  spent,  would  have  been  equable  and 
pleasant,  but  for  the  suff'erings  of  Falkner ;  and  as  those 
diminished,  another  evil  arose,  in  his  eyes  of  far  more  awful 
magnitude.  They  had  resided  at  Wimbledon  about  a  year, 
Avhen  Elizabeth  fell  ill.  Her  medical  advisers  explained 
her  malady  as  the  efl'ect  of  the  extreme  nervous  excitement 
she  had  gone  through  during  the  last  years,  which,  borne 
with  a  patience  and  fortitude  almost  superhuman,  had 
meanwhile  undermined  her  physical  strength.  This  was  a 
mortal  blow  to  Falkner ;  while  with  self-absorbed,  and,  he 
now  felt,  criminal  pertinacity,  he  had  sought  death,  he  had 
forgotten  the  results  such  acts  of  his  might  have  on  one  so 
dear  and  innocent.  He  had  thought  that  when  she  lost 
him,  Elizabeth  would  feel  a  transitory  sorrow ;  while  new 
scenes,  anollier  family,  and  the  absence  of  his  griefs,  would 


FALKNER.  86 

soon  bring  comfort.  But  he  lived,  and  the  consequences  of 
his  resolve  to  die  fell  upon  her — she  was  his  victun !  there 
was  something  maddening  in  the  thought.  He  looked  at 
her  dear  face,  grovi^n  so  pale — viewed  her  wasting  form — 
watched  her  loss  of  appetite  and  nervous  tremours  with 
an  impatient  agony  that  irritated  his  wound,  and  brought 
back  malady  on  himself. 

All  that  the  physicians  could  order  for  Elizabeth,  was 
change  of  air — added  to  an  intimation  that  an  entirely  new 
scene,  and  a  short  separation  from  her  father,  would  be  of 
the  utmost  beneti'.  Where  could  she  gol  it  was  not  now 
that  she  drooped — and  trembled  at  every  sound,  that  he 
could  restore  her  to  her  father's  family.  No  time  ought  to 
be  lost,  he  was  told,  and  the  word  consumption  mentioned ; 
the  deaths  of  her  parents  gave  a  sting  to  that  word,  which 
filled  him  with  terror.  Something  nujst  be  done  immedi- 
ately— what  he  knew  not ;  and  he  gazed  on  his  darling, 
whom  he  felt  that  by  his  own  act  he  had  destroyed,  with 
an  ardour  to  save  that  he  felt  was  impotent,  and  he  writhed 
beneath  the  thought. 

One  morning,  while  Falkner  was  brooding  over  these 
miserable  ideas,  and  Elizabeth  was  vainly  trying  to  assume 
a  look  of  cheerfulness  and  health,  which  her  languid  step 
and  pale  cheek  belied,  a  carriage  entered  their  quiet 
grounds,  and  a  visiter  was  announced.  It  was  Lady  Cecil. 
Elizabeth  had  nearly  forgotten,  nor  ever  expected  to  see 
her  again — but  that  lady,  whose  mind  was  at  ease  at  the 
period  of  their  acquaintance,  and  who  had  been  charmed 
by  the  beauty  and  virtues  of  the  devoted  daughter,  had 
never  ceased  to  determine  at  some  time  to  seek  her,  and 
renew  their  acquaintance.  She,  indeed,  never  expected  to 
see  Falkner  again,  and  she  often  wondered  what  would  be 
his  daughter's  fate  when  he  died ;  she  and  her  family  had 
remained  abroad  till  the  present  spring,  when,  being  in  Lon- 
don, she,  by  Miss  Jervis's  assistance,  learned  that  he  still 
lived,  and  that  they  were  both  at  Wimbledon. 

Lady  Cecil  was  a  welcome  visiter  wherever  she  went, 
for  there  was  an  atmosphere  of  cheerful  and  kindly  warmth 
around  her,  that  never  failed  to  communicate  pleasure. 
Falkner,  who  had  not  seen  her  at  Leghorn,  and  had  scarcely 
heard  her  name  mentioned,  was  won  at  once ;  and  when 
she  spoke  with  ardent  praise  of  Elizabetli,  and  looked  upon 
her  altered  appearance  with  undisguised  distress,  his  heart 
warmed  towards  her,  and  he  was  ready  to  ask  her  assist- 
ance in  his  dilemma.  That  was  offered,  however,  before 
it  was  asked — she  heard  that  change  of  air  was  recom- 
mended— she  guessed  that  too  great  anxiety  for  her  father 
had  produced  her  illness — she  felt  sure  that  her  own  pleas- 
ant residence  and  cheerful  family  was  the  best  remedy 
that  could  be  administered. 


86  FALKNER. 

"I  will  not  be  denied,"  she  said,  after  having  made  her 
invitation  that  both  father  and  daughter  should  pay  her  a 
visit.  "  You  must  come  to  me  :  Lord  Cecil  is  gone  to  Ire- 
land for  two  months,  to  look  after  his  estate  there  ;  and  our 
little  Julius  being  weakly,  I  could  not  accompany  him.  I 
have  taken  a  house  near  Hastings — the  air  is  salubrious, 
the  place  beautiful — I  lead  a  domestic,  quiet  life,  and  I  am, 
sure  Miss  Falkner  will  soon  be  well  with  me." 

As  her  invitation  was  urged  with  warmth  and  sincerity, 
Falkner  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  it.  To  a  certain  degree, 
he  modified  it,  by  begging  that  Elizabeth  should  accompany 
Lady  Cecil,  in  the  first  place,  alone.  As  the  visit  was  to  be 
for  two  months,  he  promised  after  the  first  was  elapsed  to 
join  them.  He  alleged  various  reasons  for  this  arrange- 
ment ;  his  real  one  being,  that  he  had  gathered  from  the 
physicians  that  they  considered  a  short  separation  from 
him  as  essential  to  the  invalid's  recovery.  She  acceded, 
for  she  was  anxious  to  get  well,  and  hoped  that  the  change 
would  restore  her.  Everything  was  therefore  soon  agreed 
upon ;  and,  two  days  afterward,  the  two  ladies  were  on 
their  road  to  Hastings,  where  Lady  Cecil's  family  already 
was — she  having  come  to  town  with  her  husband  only,  who 
by  this  time  had  set  out  on  his  Irish  tour. 

"  I  feel  convinced  that  three  daj^s  of  my  nursing  will 
make  you  quite  well,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  as  they  were  tOj 
gether  in  her  travelling  carriage ;  "  I  wish  you  to  look  as 
you  did  in  Italy.  One  so  young,  and  naturally  so  healthy, 
will  soon  recover  strength.  You  overtasked  yourself — and 
your  energetic  mind  is  too  strong  for  your  body ;  but  re- 
pose, and  my  care,  will  restore  you.  I  am  sure  we  shall  be 
very  happy — my  children  are  dear  little  angels,  and  will 
entertain  you  when  you  like,  and  never  be  in  your  way.  I 
shall  be  your  head  nurse — and  Miss  Jervis,  dear  odd  soul ! 
will  act  under  my  orders.  The  situation  of  my  house  is 
enchanting ;  and,  to  add  to  our  family  circle,  I  expect  my 
brother  Gerard,  whom  I  am  sure  you  will  like.  Did  I  ever 
mention  him  to  you  1  perhaps  not — but  you  must  like  Ge- 
rard— and  you  will  delight  him.  He  is  serious — nay,  to  say 
the  truth,  sad — but  it  is  a  sadness  a  thousand  times  more 
interesting  than  the  gayety  of  commonplace  worldly  men. 
It  is  a  seriousness  full  of  noble  thoughts  and  aflfectionate 
feelings.  I  never  knew,  I  never  dreamed,  that  there  was  a 
creature  resembling  or  to  be  compared  to  him  in  the  world, 
till  I  saw  you.  Y^ou  have  the  same  freedom  from  worldli- 
ness— the  same  noble  and  elevated  ideas— feeling  for  oth- 
ers, and  thinking  not  of  the  petty  circle  of  ideas  that  encom- 
passes and  presses  down  every  other  mind,  so  that  they 
cannot  see  or  feel  beyond  their  Lilliputian  selves. 

"  In  one  thing  you  do  not  resemble  Gerard.  Y'ou,  though 
quiet,  are  cheerful ;  while  he,  naturally  more  vivacious,  is 


FALKNER.  87 

melancholy.  You  look  an  inquiry,  but  I  cannot  tell  you  the 
cause  of  my  brother's  unhappiness  ;  for  his  friendship  for 
me,  which  1  highly  prize,  depends  upon  my  keeping  sa- 
credly the  promise  I  have  given  never  to  make  his  sorrows 
a  topic  of  conversation.  All  I  can  say  is,  that  they  result 
from  a  sensibility,  and  a  delicate  pride,  which  is  overstrain- 
ed, yet  which  makes  me  love  him  ten  thousand  times  more 
dearly.  He  is  better  now  than  he  used  to  be,  and  I  hope 
that  time  and  reason  will  altogether  dissipate  the  vain  re- 
grets that  imbitter  his  life.  Some  new,  some  strong  feeling 
may  one  day  spring  up  and  scatter  the  clouds.  I  pray  for 
this  ;  for  though  I  love  him  tenderly,  and  sympathize  in  his 
grief,  yet  I  think  it  excessive  and  deplorable ;  and,  alas ! 
never  to  be  remedied,  though  it  may  be  forgotten." 

Elizabeth  listened  with  some  surprise  to  hear  of  another 
so  highly  praised,  and  yet  unhappy ;  while  in  her  heart  she 
thought,  "  Though  this  sound  like  one  to  be  compared  to 
Neville,  yet,  when  I  see  him,  how  I  shall  scorn  the  very 
thought  of  finding  another  as  high-minded,  kind,  and  inter- 
esting as  he  !"  She  gave  no  utterance,  however,  to  this  re- 
flection, and  merely  asked,  "  Is  your  brother  older  than  you  V 

"  No,  younger — he  is  only  two-and-twenty ;  but  passion 
and  grief,  endured  almost  since  infancy,  prevented  him 
when  a  child  from  being  childish ;  and  now  he  has  all  that 
isJ^autiful  in  youth,  with  none  of  its  follies.  Pardon  my 
eiBusiasm  ;  but  you  will  grow  enthusiastic  also  when  you 
see  Gerard." 

1^  I  doubt  that,"  thought  Elizabeth ;  "  my  enthusiasm  is 
speiit,  and  1  should  hale  myself  if  I  could  think  of  another 
as  of  Neville."  This  latent  thought  made  the  excessive 
praises  which  Lady  Cecil  bestowed  on  her  bi'otlier  sound 
almost  distastefully.  Her  thoughts  flew  back  to  Marseilles  ; 
to  his  sedulous  attentions — their  parting  interview — and 
fixed  at  last  upon  the  strange  emotion  Falkner  had  display- 
ed when  seeing  him ;  and  his  desire  that  his  name  even 
should  not  be  mentioned.  Again  she  wondered  what  this 
meant,  and  her  thoughts  became  abstracted ;  Lady  Cecil 
conjectured  that  she  was  tired,  and  permitted  her  to  indulge 
in  her  silent  reveries. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

Lady  Cecil's  housu  vas  situated  on  the  heights  that  over- 
look Fairlight  iiay,  near  Hastings.  Any  one  wlio  has  vis- 
ited that  coast  knows  the  pecuUar  beauty  of  the  rocks, 
downs,  and  groves  of  Fairlight.     The  oak,  which  clothes 


m 
\ 

88  FALKNER. 

each  dell,  and,  in  a  dwarf  and  clipped  state,  forms  the  hedges, 
imparts  a  richness  not  only  to  the  wide  landscape,  but  to 
each  broken  nook  of  ground  and  sequestered  corner ;  the 
fern,  which  grows  only  in  contiguity  to  the  oak,  giving  a 
wild  forest  appearance  to  the  glades.  The  mansion  itself 
was  large,  convenient,  and  cheerful.  The  grounds  were 
extensive  ;  and  from  points  of  view  you  could  see  the  wide 
sea — the  more  picturesque  baj'^ — and  the  undulating,  varied 
shore  that  curves  in  towards  Winchelsea.  It  was  impossible 
to  conceive  a  scene  more  adapted  to  revive  the  spirits,  and 
give  variety  and  amusement  to  the  thoughts. 

Elizabeth  grew  better,  as  by  a  miracle,  the  very  day  after 
her  arrival ;  and  within  a  week  a  sensible  change  had  taken 
place  in  her  appearance,  as  well  as  her  health.  The  roses 
bloomed  in  her  cheeks — her  step  regained  its  elasticity — 
her  spirits  rose  even  to  gayety.  All  was  new  and  anima- 
tmg.  Lady  Cecil's  beautiful  and  spirited  children  delighted 
her.  It  was  a  domestic  scene,  adorned  by  elegance  and 
warmed  by  affection.  Elizabeth  had,  despite  her  attach- 
ment to  her  father,  often  felt  the  weight  of  loneliness  when 
left  by  him  at  Zante ;  or  when  his  illness  threw  her  back 
entirely  on  herself.  Now  on  each  side  there  were  sweet, 
kind  faces — playful,  tender  caresses — and  a  laughing  mirth, 
cheering  in  its  perfect  innocence. 

The  only  annoyance  she  suffered  arose  from  the  great 
influx  of  visiters.  Having  lived  a  life  disjoined  from  the 
crowd,  she  soon  began  to  conceive  the  hermitess,  delight 
in  loneliness,  and  the  vexation  of  being  intruded  upon  by 
the  frivolous  and  indifferent.  She  found  that  she  loved 
friends,  but  hated  acquaintance.  Nor  was  this  strange. 
Her  mind  was  quite  empty  of  conventional  frivohties.  She 
had  not  been  at  a  ball  twice  in  her  life,  and  then  only  when 
a  mere  child ;  yet  all  had  been  interest  and  occupation.  To 
unbend  with  her  was  to  converse  with  a  friend — to  play 
with  children — or  to  enjoy  the  scenes  of  nature  witli  one 
who  felt  their  beauties  with  her.  "It  was  hard  labour," 
she  often  said,  "  to  talk  with  people  with  whom  she  had  not 
one  pursuit — one  taste  in  common."  Often  when  a  ba- 
rouche, crowded  with  gay  bonnets,  appeared,  she  stole  away. 
Lady  Cecil  could  not  understand  this.  Brought  up  in  the 
thick  of  fashionable  life,  no  person  of  her  clique  was  a 
stranger;  and  if  any  odd  people  called  on  her — still  they 
were  in  some  way  entertaining;  or  if  bores — bores  are  an 
integral  portion  of  life,  not  to  be  shaken  off  with  impunity, 
for,  as  oysters,  they  often  retain  the  fairest  pearls  in  close 
conjunction.  "You  are  wrong,"  said  Lady  Cecil.  "You 
must  not  be  a  savage — I  cannot  have  mercy  on  you ;  this  little 
jagged  point  in  your  character  must  be  worn  off— you  must 
be  as  smooth  and  glossy  in  exterior  as  you  are  incalculably 
precious  in  the  substance  of  your  mind." 


FALKNER.  '  89, 

Elizabetli  smiled ;  but  not  the  less  when  a  sleek,  self- 
satisfied  dowager,  all  smiles  to  those  she  knew — all  imper- 
tinent scrutiny  to  the  unknown — and  a  train  of  ugly  old  wo- 
men in  embryo— called,  for  the  present,  misses — followed, 
each  honouring  her  with  an  insolent  stare.  "  There  was  a 
spirit  in  her  feet,"  and  she  could  not  stay,  but  hurried  out 
into  the  woodland  dells,  and  with  a  book,  her  own  reveries, 
and  the  beautiful  objects  around  her,  as  her  companions; 
and  feeling  ecstatically  happy,  both  at  what  she  possessed, 
and  what  she  had  escaped  from. 

Thus  it  was  one  day  that  she  deserted  Lady  Cecil,  who 
was  smiling  sweetly  on  a  red-faced  gouty  squire,  and  lis- 
tening placidly  to  his  angry  wife,  who  was  complaining  that 
her  name  had  been  put  too  low  down  in  some  charity  list. 
She  stole  out  from  the  glass-door  that  opened  on  the  lawn, 
and,  delighted  that  her  escape  was  secure,  hurried  to  join 
the  little  group  of  children  whom  she  saw  speeding  beyond 
into  the  park. 

"  Without  a  bonnet.  Miss  Falkner !"  cried  Miss  Jervis. 

"  Yes  ;  and  the  sun  is  warm.  You  are  not  using  your 
parasol,  Miss  Jervis ;  lend  it  me,  and  let  us  go  into  the 
shade."  Then,  taking  her  favourite  child  by  the  hand,  she 
said,  "  Come,  let  us  pay  visits.  Mamma  has  got  some  vis- 
iters ;  so  we  will  go  and  seek  for  some.  There  is  my  Lord 
Deer  and  pretty  Lady  Doe.  Ah !  pretty  Miss  Fawn,  what 
a  nice  dappled  frock  j^ou  have  on !" 

The  child  was  enchanted ;  and  they  wandered  on  through 
the  glades,  among  the  fern,  into  a  shady  dell,  quite  at  the  other 
side  of  the  park,  and  sat  down  beneath  a  spreading  oak-tree. 
By  this  time  they  had  got  into  a  serious  talk  of  where  the 
clouds  where  going,  and  where  the  first  tree  came  from, 
when  a  gentleman,  who  had  entered  the  park  gates  unper- 
ceived,  rode  by,  and  pulling  up  his  horse  suddenly,  with  a 
start,  and  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  he  and  Elizabeth  rec- 
ognised each  other. 

"  Mr.  Neville  !"  she  cried,  and  her  heart  was  full  in  a  mo- 
ment of  a  thousand  recollections — of  the  gratitude  she  owed 
— their  parting  scene — and  the  many  conjectures  she  had 
formed  about  him  since  they  separated.  He  looked  more 
than  pleased  ;  and  the  expression  of  gloomy  abstraction 
which  his  face  too  often  wore  was  lighted  up  by  a  smile  that 
went  straight  to  the  heart.  He  sprung  from  his  horse,  gave 
the  rein  to  his  groom,  and  joining  Elizabeth  and  her  little 
companion,  walked  towards  the  house. 

Explanations  and  surprise  followed.  He  was  the  praised, 
expected  brother  of  Lady  Cecil.  How  strange  that  Elizabeth 
had  not  discovered  this  relationship  at  Marseilles  !  and  yet, 
at  that  time,  she  had  scarcely  a  tliought  to  spare  beyond 
Falkner.  His  recovery  surprised  Neville,  and  he  expressed 
the  warmest  pleasure.  He  looked  with  tenderness  and  ad- 
s' 


90  FALKNER. 

miration  at  the  soft  and  beautiful  creature  beside  him,  whose 
courage  and  unwearied  assiduity  had  preserved  her  father's 
life.  It  was  a  bewitching  contrast  to  remember  her  face 
shadowed  by  fear — her  vigilant,  anxious  eyes  fixed  on  her 
father's  wan  countenance — her  thoughts  filled  with  one  sad 
fear  ;  and  now  to  see  it  beaming  in  youthful  beauty,  anima- 
ted by  the  happy,  generous  feelings  which  Avere  her  nature. 
Yet  this  very  circumstance  had  a  sad  reaction  upon  Neville. 
His  heart  still  bore  the  burden  of  its  sorrow,  and  he  felt 
more  sure  of  the  sympathy  of  the  afflicted  moui-ner,  than  of 
one  who  looked  untouched  by  any  adversity.  The  senti- 
ment was  transitory,  for  Elizabeth,  with  that  delicate  tact 
which  is  natural  to  a  feeling  mind,  soon  gave  such  a  sub- 
dued tone  to  their  conversation  as  made  it  accord  with  the 
mysterious  unhappiness  of  her  companion. 

When  near  the  house,  they  were  met  by  Lady  Cecil,  who 
smiled  at  what  she  deemed  a  sudden  intimacy  naturally 
sprung  between  two  who  had  so  many  qualities  in  common. 
Lady  Cecil  really  believed  them  made  for  each  other,  and 
had  been  anxious  to  bring  them  together ;  for,  being  pas- 
sionately attached  to  her  brother,  and  grieving  at  the  mel- 
ancholy that  darkened  his  existence,  she  thought  she  had 
found  a  cure  in  her  new  friend ;  and  that  the  many  charms 
of  Elizabeth  would  cause  him  to  forget  the  misfortunes  on 
which  he  so  vainly  brooded.  She  Avas  still  more  pleased 
when  an  explanation  was  given,  and  she  found  that  they 
were  already  intimate — already  acquainted  with  the  claims 
each  possessed  to  the  other's  admiration  and  interest ;  and 
each  naturally  drawn  to  seek  in  the  other  that  mirror  of  their 
better  nature,  that  touch  of  kindred  soul,  which  showed  that 
they  were  formed  to  share  existence,  or,  separated,  to  pine 
eternally  for  a  reunion. 

Lady  Cecil  with  playful  curiosity  questioned  why  they 
had  concealed  their  being  acquainted.  Elizabeth  could  not 
well  tell ;  she  had  thought  much  of  Neville,  but  first  the 
prohibition  of  Falkner,  and  then  the  excessive  praises  Lady 
Cecil  bestowed  upon  her  brother,  chained  her  tongue.  The 
one  had  accustomed  her  to  preserve  silence  on  a  subject 
deeply  interesting  to  her  ;  the  other  jarred  with  any  confi- 
dence, for  there  would  have  been  a  comparing  Neville  with 
the  Gerard  which  was  indeed  himself ;  and  Elizabeth  neither 
wished  to  have  her  friend  depreciated,  nor  to  struggle 
against  the  enthusiasm  felt  by  the  lady  for  her  brother.  The 
forced  silence  of  to-day  on  such  a  subject  renders  the  silence 
of  to-morrow  almost  a  matter  of  necessity  ;  and  she  was 
ashamed  to  mention  one  she  had  not  already  named.  It 
may  be  remarked  that  this  sort  of  shame  arises  in  all  dispo- 
sitions ;  it  is  the  seal  and  symbol  of  love.  Shame  of  any 
kind  was  not  akin  to  the  sincere  and  ingenuous  nature  of 
Elizabeth ;  but  love,  though  young  and  unacknowledged, 


*       FALKNER.  91 

will  tyrannise  from  the  first,  and  produce  emotions  never 
felt  before. 

Neville  hoarded  yet  more  avariciously  the  name  of  Eliza- 
beth. There  was  delight  in  the  very  thought  of  her  ;  but  he 
shrunk  from  being  questioned.  He  had  resolved  to  avoid 
her  ;  for,  till  his  purpose  was  achieved,  and  the  aim  of  his 
existence  fulfilled,  he  would  not  yield  to  the  charms  of  love, 
which  he  felt  hovered  round  the  beautiful  Elizabeth.  Sworn 
to  a  sacred  duty,  no  self-centred  or  self- prodigal  passion 
should  come  between  him  and  its  accomplishment.  But, 
meeting  her  thus  unawares,  he  could  not  continue  guarded  ; 
his  very  soul  drank  in  gladness  at  the  sight  of  her.  He  re- 
marked with  joy  the  cheerfulness  that  had  replaced  her 
cares  ;  he  looked  upon  her  open  brow,  her  eyes  of  mingled 
tenderness  and  fire,  her  figure,  free  and  graceful  in  every 
motion,  and  felt  that  she  reahzed  eveiy  idea  he  had  formed 
of  feminine  beauty.  He  fancied,  indeed,  that  he  looked  upon 
her  as  a  picture  ;  that  his  heart  was  too  absorbed  by  its  own 
griefs  to  catch  a  thought  beyond  ;  he  was  unmindful,  while 
he  gazed,  of  that  emanation,  that  shadow  of  the  shape, 
which  the  Latin  poet  tells  us  flows  from  every  object,  that 
impalpable  impress  of  her  form  and  being,  which  the  air 
took  and  then  folded  round  him,  so  that  all  he  saw  entered, 
as  it  were,  into  his  own  substance,  and  became  mingled  up 
for  evermore  with  his  identity. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

Three  or  four  days  passed  in  great  tranquillity;  and  Lady 
Cecil  rejoiced  that  the  great  medicine  acted  so  well  on  the 
rankling  malady  of  her  brother's  soul.  It  was  the  leafy 
month  of  June,  and  nature  was  as  beautiful  as  these  lovely 
beings  themselves,  who  enjoyed  her  sweets  with  enthusias- 
tic and  new-sprung  dehght.  They  sailed  on  the  sunny  sea 
— or  lingered  by  the  summer  brooks,  and  among  the  rich 
woodlands — ignorant  why  all  appeared  robed  in  a  brightness 
which  before  they  had  never  observed.  Elizabeth  had  lit- 
tle thought  beyond  the  present  hour — except  to  wish  for 
the  time  when  Falkner  was  to  join  them.  Neville  rebelled 
somewhat  against  the  new  law  he  obeyed,  but  it  was  a 
slothful  rebellion — till  on  the  day  he  was  awakened  from  his 
daream  of  peace. 

One  morning,  Eliza:beth,  on  entering  the  breakfast-room, 
found  Lady  Cecil  leaning  discontentedly  by  the  window, 
restijig  her  cheek  on  her  hand,  ajid  her  brow  overcast. 

"  He  is  gone,"  she  exclaimed ;  "  it  is  too  provoking !  Ge- 


92  FALKNER. 

rard  is  gone  !  A  letter  came,  and  I  could  not  detain  him — 
it  will  take  him  probably  to  the  other  end  of  the  kingdom — 
and  who  knows  when  we  shall  see  him  again  !" 

They  sat  down  to  breakfast,  but  Lady  Cecil  Avas  full  of 
discontent.  "  It  is  not  only  that  he  is  gone,"  she  contin- 
ued, "  but  the  cause  of  his  going  is  full  of  pain  and  care — 
and,  unfortunately,  you  cannot  syrapatliize  with  me,  for  I 
have  not  obtained  his  consent  to  confide  his  hapless  story 
to  you.  Would  that  I  might ! — you  would  feel  for  him — for 
us  all." 

"  He  has  been  unhappy  since  childhood,"  observed  Eliza- 
beth. 

"  He  has,  it  is  true ;  but  how  did  you  learn  that  1  has  he 
ever  told  you  anything  V 

"  I  saw  him,  many  years  ago,  at  Baden.  How  wild,  how 
sullen  he  was — unlike  his  present  self !  for  then  there  was 
a  violence  and  a  savageness  in  his  gloom,  which  has  van- 
ished." 

"  Poor  boy  !"  said  Lady  Cecil ;  "  I  remember  well — and  it 
is  a  pleasure  to  think  that  I  am,  to  a  great  degree,  the  cause 
of  the  change.  He  had  no  friend  at  that  time — none  to 
love — to  listen  to  him,  and  foster  hopes  which,  however 
vain,  diminish  his  torments,  and  are  all  the  cure  he  can  ob- 
tain, till  he  forgets  them.  But  what  can  this  mean?"  she 
continued,  starting  up;  "what  can  bring  him  backl  It  is 
Gerard  returned  !" 

She  threw  open  the  glass  door,  and  went  out  to  meet  him 
as  he  rode  up  the  avenue — he  threw  himself  from  his  horse, 
and  advanced,  exclaiming,  "  Is  my  father  here]" 

"  Sir  Boyville  ?     No  ;  is  he  coming  ]" 

"  Oh  yes !  we  shall  see  him  soon.  I  met  a  servant  with 
a  letter  sent  express — the  post  was  too  slow — he  will  be 
here  soon ;  he  left  London  last  night — you  know  with  what 
speed  he  travels." 

"  But  why  this  sudden  visit?" 

"  Can  you  not  guess  ?  He  received  a  letter  from  the 
same  person — containing  the  same  account ;  he  knew  I  was 
here — he  comes  to  balk  my  purpose,  to  forbid,  to  storm,  to 
reproach ;  to  do  all  that  he  has  done  a  thousand  times  be- 
fore, with  the  same  success." 

Neville  looked  flushed  and  disturbed ;  his  face,  usually 
"  more  in  sorrow  than  in  anger,"  now  expressed  the  latter 
emotion,  mingled  with  scorn  and  resolution ;  he  gave  the 
letter  he  had  received  to  Lady  Cecil.  "  I  am  wrong,  perhaps, 
in  returning  at  his  bidding,  since  I  do  not  mean  ultimately  to 
obey — yet  he  charges  me  on  my  duty  to  hear  him  once 
again;  so  I  am  come  to  hear — to  listen  to  the  old  war  of 
his  vanity  with  what  he  calls  my  pride — his  vindictiveness 
with  my  sense  of  duty — his  vituperation  of  her  I  worship— 
and  I  must  bear  this !" 


FALKNER.  93 

Lady  Cecil  read  the  letter,  and  Neville  pressed  Eliza- 
beth's hand,  and  besousfht  her  excuse,  while  she,  much  be- 
wildered, was  desirous  to  leave  the  room.  At  this  moment 
the  noise  of  a  carriage  was  heard  on  the  gravel.  "  He  is 
here,"  said  Neville  ;  "  see  him  first,  Sophia,  tell  him  how 
resolved  I  am — how  right  in  my  resolves.  Try  to  prevent 
a  struggle,  as  disgraceful  as  vain;  and  most  so  to  my  fa- 
ther, since  he  must  suffer  defeat." 

With  a  look  of  much  distress,  Lady  Cecil  left  the  room 
to  receive  her  new  guest ;  while  Elizabeth  stole  out  by  an- 
other door  into  the  grove,  and  mused  under  the  shady  cov- 
ert on  what  had  passed.  She  felt  curious,  yet  saddened. 
Concord,  affection,  and  sympathy  are  so  delightful,  that  all 
that  disturbs  the  harmony  is  eminently  distasteful.  Family 
contentions  are  worst  of  all.  Yet  she  would  not  prejudge 
Neville.  He  felt,  in  its  full  bitterness,  the  pain  of  disobey- 
ing his  parent ;  and  whatever  motive  led  to  such  a  mode  of 
action,  it  hung  like  an  eclipse  over  his  life.  What  it  might 
be  slie  could  not  guess ;  but  it  was  no  ignoble,  self-centred 
passion.  Hope  and  joy  were  sacrificed  to  it.  She  remem- 
bered him  as  she  first  saw  him,  a  boy  driven  to  wildness  by 
a  sense  of  injury ;  she  remembered  him  when  reason  and 
his  better  nature  had  subdued  the  selfish  portion  of  his  feel- 
ing— grown  kind  as  a  woman — active,  friendly,  and  sympa- 
thizing, as  few  men  are ;  she  recollected  him  by  Falkner's 
sick  couch,  and  when  he  took  leave  of  her,  auguring  that 
they  should  meet  in  a  happier  hour.  That  hour  had  not  yet 
come,  and  she  confessed  to  herself  that  she  longed  to  know 
the  cause  of  his  unhappiness ;  and  wondered  whether,  by 
counsel  or  sympathy,  she  could  bring  any  cure. 

She  Avas  plunged  in  revery,  walking  slowly  beneath  the 
forest  trees,  when  she  heard  a  quick  step  brushing  the  dead 
leaves  and  fern,  and  Neville  joined  her.  "  I  have  escaped," 
he  cried,  "  and  left  poor  Sophy  to  bear  the  scoldings  of  an 
unjust  and  angry  man.  I  could  not  stay — it  was  not  cow- 
ardice— but  I  have  recollections  joined  to  such  contests, 
that  make  my  heart  sick.  Besides,  I  should  reply — and  I 
would  not  willingly  forget  that  he  is  my  father." 

"  It  must  be  indeed  painful,"  said  EUzabeth,  "  to  quarrel 
with,  to  disobey  a  parent." 

"  Yet  there  are  motives  that  might,  that  must  excuse 
it.  Do  you  remember  the  character  of  Hamlet,  Miss  F'alk- 
nerV 

"  Perfectly — it  is  the  imbodying  of  the  most  refined,  the 
most  genuine,  and  yet  the  most  harrowing  feelings  and  sit- 
uation, that  the  imagination  ever  conceived." 

"  I  have  read  that  play,"  said  Neville,  "  till  each  word 
seems  instinct  with  a  message  direct  to  my  heart — as  if  my 
own  emotions  gave  a  conscious  soul  to  every  line.  Hamlet 
was  called  upon  to  avenge  a  father — in  execution  of  his 


94  FALKNER. 

task  he  did  not  spare  a  dearer,  a  far  more  sacred  name — if 
he  used  no  daggers  with  his  mother,  he  spoke  them;  nor 
winced,  though  she  writhed  beneath  his  hand.  Mine  is  a 
Ughter,  yet  a  hoher  duty.  I  would  vindicate  a  mother — 
without  judging  my  father — without  any  accusation  against 
him,  I  would  establish  her  innocence.  Is  this  blameable  ? 
What  would  you  do,  Miss  Falkner,  if  your  father  were  ac- 
cused of  a  crime  !" 

"  My  father  and  a  crime  !  Impossible  !"  exclaimed  Eliza- 
beth ;  for,  strange  to  say,  all  the  self-accusations  of  Falkner 
fell  empty  on  her  ear.  It  was  a  virtue  in  him  to  be  con- 
science-stricken for  an  error ;  of  any  real  guilt  she  would 
have  pledged  her  life  that  he  was  free. 

"  Yes — impossible  !"  cried  Neville — "  doubtless  it  is  so  ; 
but  did  you  hear  his  name  stigmatized — shame  attend  your 
very  kindred  to  him — what  would  you  do  ? — defend  him — 
prove  his  innocence — would  you  not  V 

"A  life  were  well  sacrificed  to  such  a  duty." 

"And  to  that  very  duty  mine  is  devoted.  In  childhood  I 
rebelled  against  the  accusation  with  vain,  but  earnest  indig- 
nation ;  now  I  am  calmer  because  I  am  more  resolved ; 
but  I  will  yield  to  no  impediment — be  stopped  by  no  difficulty 
— not  even  by  my  father's  blind  commands.  My  mother ! 
dear  name — dearer  for  the  ills  attached  to  it — my  angel 
mother  shall  find  an  unfaltering  champion  in  her  son. 

"  You  must  not  be  angry,"  he  continued,  in  reply  to  her 
look  of  wonder,  "  that  I  mention  circumstances  which  it  is 
customary  to  slur  over  and  conceal.  It  is  shame  for  me  to 
speak — for  you  to  hear — my  mother's  name.  That  very 
thought  gives  a  keener  edge  to  my  purpose.  God  knows 
what  miserable  truth  is  hidden  by  the  veils  which  vanity, 
revenge,  and  selfishness  have  drawn  around  my  mother's 
fate ;  but  that  truth — though  it  be  a  bleeding  one — shall  be 
disclosed,  and  her  innocence  be  made  as  clear  as  the  sun 
now  shining  above  us. 

"  It  is  dreadful,  very  dreadful,  to  be  told — to  be  persuaded 
that  the  idol  of  one's  thoughts  is  corrupt  and  vile.  It  is  no 
new  story,  it  is  true — wives  have  been  false  to  their  husbands 
ere  now,  and  some  have  found  excuses,  and  sometimes 
been  justified ;  it  is  the  manner  makes  the  thing.  That  my 
mother  should  have  left  her  happy  home — which,  under  her 
guardian  eye,  was  paradise — have  deserted  me,  her  child, 
Avhom  she  so  fondly  loved — and  who,  even  in  that  uncon- 
scious age,  adored  her — and  her  poor  little  girl,  who  died 
neglected — that  year  after  year  she  has  never  inquired  after 
us — nor  sent  nor  sought  a  word — while  following  a  stran- 
ger's fortune  through  the  world !  That  she  whose  nightly 
sleep  was  broken  by  her  tender  cares — whose  voice  so 
often  lulled  me,  and  whose  every  thought  and  act  was  pure 
as  an  angel's — that  she,  tempted'  by  the  arch  liend,  strayed 


FALKNER.  95 

from  hell  for  her  destmction,  should  leave  us  all  to  misery, 
and  her  own  name  to  obloquy.  No  !  no  !  The  earth  is  yet 
sheltered  by  heaven,  and  sweet  and  good  things  abide  in  it 
— and  she  was,  and  is,  among  them  sweetest  and  best !" 

Neville  was  carried  away  by  his  feelings — while  Elizabeth, 
overpowered  by  his  vehemence — astonished  by  the  wild, 
strange  tale  he  disclosed,  listened  in  silence,  yet  an  eloquent 
silence — for  her  eyes  filled  with  tears — and  her  heart  burned 
in  her  bosom  with  a  desire  to  show  how  entirely  she  shared 
his  deep  emotion. 

"  I  have  made  a  vow,"  he  continued — "  it  is  registered  in 
heaven ;  and  each  night  as  I  lay  my  head  on  my  pillow  I 
renew  it ;  and  beside  you — the  best  of  earthly  things  now 
that  my  dear  mother  is  gone,  I  repeat — that  I  devote  my  life 
to  vindicate  her  who  gave  me  life  ;  and  my  selfish,  revenge- 
ful father  is  here  to  impede — to  forbid — but  I  trample  on 
such  obstacles,' as  on  these  dead  leaves  beneath  our  feet. 
You  do  not  speak,  Miss  Falkner — did  you  ever  hear  of  Mrs. 
Neville  V 

"  I  have  spent  all  my  life  out  of  England,"  replied  Eliza- 
beth, "  yet  1  have  some  recollection." 

"  I  do  not  doubt  it — to  the  ends  of  the  earth  the  base- 
minded  love  to  carry  the  tale  of  slander  and  crime.  You 
have  heard  of  Mrs.  Neville,  who,  for  the  sake  of  a  stranger, 
deserted  her  home,  her  husband,  her  helpless  children — and 
has  never  been  heard  of  since  ;  who,  unheard  and  unde- 
fended, was  divorced  from  her  husband — whose  miserable 
son  was  brought  to  witness  against  her.  It  is  a  story  well 
fitted  to  raise  vulgar  wonder — vulgar  abhorrence ;  do  you 
wonder  that  I,  who  since  I  was  nine  years  old  have  slept 
and  waked  on  the  thought,  should  have  been  filled  with  hate, 
rancour,  and  every  evil  passion,  till  the  blessed  thought 
dawned  on  my  soul,  that  I  would  prove  her  innocence,  and 
that  she  should  be  avenged — for  this  I  live. 

"  And  now  I  must  leave  you.  I  received  yesterday  a  let- 
ter which  promises  a  clew  to  guide  me  through  this  labyr- 
inth; wherever  it  leads,  there  I  follow.  My  father  has  come 
to  impede  me — but  I  have,  after  using  unavailing  remon- 
strance, told  him  that  I  will  obey  a  sense  of  duty  inde- 
pendent of  parental  authority.  I  do  not  mean  to  see  him 
again — I  now  go — but  I  could  not  resist  the  temptation  of 
seeing  you  before  I  went,  and  proving  to  you  the  justice  of 
my  resolves.  If  you  wish  for  further  explanation,  ask  So- 
phia— tell  her  that  she  maj'  relate  all;  there  is  not  a 
thought  or  act  of  my  life  with  which  I  would  have  you  un- 
acquainted, if  you  will  deign  to  listen." 

"  Thank  you  for  this  permission,"  said  Elizabeth ;  "  Lady 
Cecil  is  desirous,  I  know,  of  telling  me  the  cause  of  a  mel- 
ancholy which,  good  and  kind  as  you  are,  you  ought  not  to 
suffer.     Alas!  this  is  a  miserable  world:  and  when  I  hear 


96  PALKNER, 

of  your  sorrows,  and  remember  my  dear  father's,  I  think 
that  I  must  be  stone  to  feel  no  more  than  I  do  ;  and  yet,  I 
would  give  my  life  to  assist  you  in  your  task." 

"  I  know  well  how  generous  you  are,  though  I  cannot 
now  express  how  mj'  heart  thanks  you.  I  will  return  be- 
fore you  leave  my  sister;  wherever  fate  and  duty  drives 
me,  I  will  see  you  again." 

They  returned  towards  the  house,  and  he  left  her ;  his 
horse  was  already  saddled,  and  standing  at  the  door ;  he 
was  on  it,  and  gone  in  a  moment. 

Elizabeth  felt  herself  as  in  a  dream  when  he  was  gone, 
yet  her  heart  and  wishes  went  with  him ;  for  she  believed 
the  truth  of  all  he  said,  and  revered  the  enthusiasm  of  af- 
fection that  impelled  his  actions.  There  was  something 
wild  and  proud  in  his  manner,  which  forcibly  reminded  her 
of  the  boy  of  sixteen,  who  had  so  much  interested  her 
girlish  mind ;  and  his  expressions,  indignant  and  passionate 
as  they  were,  yet  vouched,  by  the  very  sentiment  they  con- 
veyed, for  the  justice  of  his  cause.  "  Gallant,  noble-hearted 
being !  God  assist  your  endeavours !  God  and  every  good 
spirit  that  animates  this  world."  Thus  her  soul  spoke  as 
she  saw  him  ride  off ;  and,  turning  into  the  house,  a  half  in- 
voluntary feeling  made  her  take  up  the  volume  of  Shaks- 
peare  containing  Hamlet ;  and  she  was  soon  buried,  not  only 
in  the  interest  of  the  drama  itself,  but  in  the  various  emo- 
tions it  excited  by  the  association  it  now  bore  to  one  she 
loved  more  even  than  she  knew.  It  was  nothing  strange 
that  Neville,  essentially  a  dreamer  and  a  poet,  should  have 
identified  himself  with  the  Prince  of  Denmark  ;  while  the 
very  idea  that  he  took  to  himself,  and  acted  on  senti- 
ments thus  high-souled  and  pure,  adorned  him  yet  more  in 
her  eyes,  endowing  him  in  ample  measure  with  that  ideal- 
ity which  the  young  and  noble  love  to  bestow  on  the  ob- 
jects of  their  attachment. 

After  a  short  time,  she  was  interrupted  by  Lady  Cecil, 
who  looked  disturbed  and  vexed.  She  said  little,  except  to 
repine  at  Gerard's  going  and  Sir  Boyvill's  stay — he  also 
was  to  depart  the  following  morning  :  but  Sir  Boyvill  was  a 
man  who  made  his  presence  felt  disagreeably,  even  when  it 
was  limited  to  a  few  hours.  Strangers  acknowledged  this  ; 
no  one  liked  the  scornful,  morose  old  man  ;  and  a  near  con- 
nexion, who  was  open  to  so  many  attacks,  and  sincerely 
loved  one  whom  Sir  Boyvill  pretended  most  to  depreciate, 
was  even  more  susceptible  to  the  painful  feelings  he  always 
contrived  to  spread  round  him.  To  despise  everybody,  to 
contradict  everybody  with  marks  of  sarcasm  and  contempt, 
to  set  himself  up  for  an  idol,  and  yet  to  scorn  his  worship- 
pers ;  these  were  the  prominent  traits  of  his  character, 
added  to  a  galled  and  sore  spirit,  which  was  for  ever  taking 
offence,  which  discerned  an  attack  in  every  word,  and  was 


PALKNER.  97 

on  the  alert  to  repay  these  fancied  injuries  with  real  and 
undoubted  insult.  He  had  been  a  man  of  fashion,  and  re- 
tained as  much  good  breeding  as  was  compatible  with  a 
techy  and  revengeful  temper  ;  this  was  his  only  merit. 

He  was  nearly  seventy  years  of  age,  remarkably  well 
preserved,  but  with  strongly-marked  features,  and  a  coun- 
tenance deeply  lined,  set  off  by  a  young-looking  wig,  wliich 
took  all  venerableness  from  his  appearance,  without  bestow- 
ing juvenility  ;  his  hps  were  twisted  into  a  sneer,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  evident  vanity  that  might  have  pro- 
voked ridicule,  but  that  traces  of  a  violent,  unforgiving  tem- 
per prevented  him  from  being  merely  despicable,  while  they 
destroyed  every  particle  of  compassion  with  which  he 
might  have  been  regarded ;  for  he  was  a  forlorn  old  man, 
separating  himself  from  those  alUed  to  him  by  blood  or 
connexion,  excellent  as  they  were.  His  only  pleasure  had 
been  in  society  ;  secluding  himself  from  that,  or  presenting 
himself  only  in  crowds,  where  he  writhed  to  find  that  he 
went  for  nothing,  he  was  miserable,  yet  not  to  be  comforted, 
for  the  torments  he  endured  were  integral  portions  of  his 
own  nature. 

He  looked  surprised  to  see  Elizabeth,  and  was  at  first 
very  civil  to  her,  with  a  sort  of  oldfashioned  gallantry 
which,  had  it  been  good-humoured,  might  have  amused,  but, 
as  it  was,  appeared  forced,  misplaced,  and  rendered  its  ob- 
ject very  uncomfortable.  Whatever  Lady  Cecil  said,  he 
contradicted.  He  made  disagreeable  remarks  about  her 
children,  prophesying  in  them  so  much  future  torment ;  and 
when  not  personally  impertinent,  amused  them  by  recapit- 
ulating all  the  most  scandalous  stories  rife  in  London  of 
unfaithful  wives  and  divided  families,  absolutely  gloating 
with  delight,  when  he  narrated  anything  peculiarly  disgrace- 
ful. After  half  an  hour,  Elizabeth  quite  hated  him ;  and  he 
extended  the  same  sentiment  to  her  on  her  bestowing  a 
meed  of  praise  on  his  son.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  in  reply, 
"  Gerard  is  a  very  pleasant  person  ;  if  I  said  he  was  half 
madman,  half  fool,  I  should  certainly  say  too  much,  and  ap- 
pear an  unkind  father;  but  the  sort  of  imbecility  that 
characterizes  his  understanding  is,  I  think,  only  equalled  by 
his  self-willed  defiance  of  all  laws  which  society  has  estab- 
lished ;  in  conduct  he  very  much  resembles  a  lunatic  armed 
with  a  weapon  of  offence,  which  he  does  not  fear  himself, 
and  deals  about  on  those  unfortunately  connected  with  him, 
with  the  same  indifference  to  wounds." 

On  this  speech,  Lady  Cecil  coloured  and  rose  from  the 
table,  and  her  friend  gladly  followed,  leaving  Sir  Boyvill 
to  his  solitary  wine.  Never  had  Elizabeth  experienced  be- 
fore the  intolerable  weight  of  an  odious  person's  society — 
she  was  stunned.  "  We  have  but  one  resource,"  said  Lady 
Cecil ;  "  you  must  sit  down  to  the  piano.  Sir  Boyvill  is 
9  E 


98  FALKNER. 

too  polite  not  to  entreat  you  to  play  on,  and  too  weary  not 
to  fall  asleep;  he  is  worse  than  ever." 

"  But  he  is  your  father !"  cried  Elizabeth,  astonished. 

"  No,  thank  Heaven !"  said  Lady  Cecil.  "  What  could 
have  put  that  into  your  head  ]  Oh,  I  see — I  call  Gerard 
my  brother.  Sir  Boyvill  married  my  poor  mother,  who  is 
since  dead.  We  are  only  connected — I  am  happy  to  say — ■ 
there  is  no  drop  of  his  blood  in  my  veins.  But  1  hear  him 
coming.  Do  play  something  of  Herz.  The  noise  will 
drown  every  other  sound,  and  even  astonish  my  father-in- 
law." 

The  evening  was  quickly  over,  for  Sir  Boyvill  retired 
early ;  the  next  morning  he  was  gone,  and  the  ladies 
breathed  freely  again.  It  is  impossible  to  attempt  to  de- 
scribe the  sort  of  moral  nightmare  the  presence  of  such  a 
man  produces.  "  Do  you  remember  in  Madame  de  Sevig- 
ne's  Letters,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  "  where  she  observes  that 
disagreeable  society  is  better  than  good — because  one  is  so 
pleased  to  get  rid  of  if?  In  this  sense.  Sir  Boyvill  is  the 
best  company  in  the  whole  world.  We  will  take  a  long 
drive  to-day,  to  get  rid  of  the  last  symptoms  of  the  Sir 
Boyvill  fever." 

"  And  you  will  tell  me  what  all  this  mystery  means," 
said  Elizabeth.  "  Mr.  Neville  gave  some  hints  yesterday  ; 
but  referred  me  to  you.     You  may  tell  me  all." 

"  Yes ;  I  am  aware,"  replied  Lady  Cecil.  "  This  one 
good,  at  least,  I  have  reaped  from  Sir  BoyvilFs  angry  visit. 
I  am  permitted  to  explain  to  you  the  causes  of  our  discord, 
and  of  dear  Gerard's  sadness.  I  shall  win  your  sympathy 
for  him,  and  exculpate  us  both.  It  is  a  mournful  tale — full 
of  unexplainable  mystery — shame — and  dreaded  ill.  It  fills 
me  perpetually  with  wonder  and  regret ;  nor  do  I  see  any 
happy  termination,  except  in  the  oblivion,  in  which  I  wish 
that  it  was  buried.  Here  is  the  carriage.  We  will  not 
take  any  of  the  children  with  us,  that  we  may  suffer  no  in- 
terruption." 

Elizabeth's  interest  was  deeply  excited,  and  she  was  as 
eager  to  listen  as  her  friend  to  tell.  The  story  outlasted  a 
long  drive.  It  was  ended  in  the  dusky  twilight — as  they  sat 
after  dinner,  looking  out  on  the  summer  woods — while  the 
stars  came  out  twinkling  amid  the  foliage  of  the  trees — 
and  the  deer  kept  close  to  graze.  The  hour  was  still— and 
was  rendered  solemn  by  a  tale  as  full  of  heartfelt  sorrow 
and  generous  enthusiasm  as  ever  won  maiden's  attention, 
and  bespoke  her  favour  for  him  who  loved  and  suffered. 


FALKNER.  99 


CHAPTER  XVI. 


Ladt  Cecil  began  : — 

"  1  have  already  told  you,  that  though  I  call  Gerard  my 
brother,  and  he  possesses  my  sisterly  affection,  we  are  only 
connexions  by  marriage,  and  not  the  least  related  in  blood. 
His  father  married  my  mother ;  but  Gerard  is  the  offspring  of 
a  former  marriage,  as  I  am  also.  Sir  Boyvill's  first  wife  is 
the  unfortunate  lady  who  is  the  heroine  of  my  tale. 

"  Sir  Boyvill,  then  Mr.  Neville,  for  he  inherited  his  bar- 
onetcy only  a  few  years  ago,  had  advanced  beyond  middle 
age  when  he  first  married.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world, 
and  of  pleasure  ;  and  being  also  clever,  handsome,  and  rich, 
had  great  success  in  the  circles  of  fashion.  He  was  often  in- 
volved in  liaisons  with  ladies,  whose  names  were  rife  among 
the  last  generation  for  loving  notoriety  and  amusement 
belter  than  duty  and  honour.  As  he  made  a  considerable 
figure,  he  conceived  that  he  had  a  right'to  entertain  a  high 
opinion  of  himself,  and  not  without  some  foundation ;  his 
good  sayings  were  repeated ;  his  songs  were  set  to  music, 
and  sung  with  enthusiasm  in  his  own  set — he  was  courted 
and  feared.  Favoured  by  women,  imitated  by  men,  he 
reached  the  zenith  of  a  system,  any  connexion  with  which 
is  considered  as  enviable. 

"  He  was  some  five-and-forty  when  he  fell  in  love,  and 
married.  Like  many  dissipated  men,  he  had  a  mean  idea 
of  female  virtue — and  especially  disbelieved  that  any  por-  . 
tion  of  it  was  to  be  found  in  London ;  so  he  married  a  country 
girl,  without  fortune,  but  with  beauty  and  attractions  suffi- 
cient to  justify  his  choice.  I  never  saw  his  lady  ;  but  sev- 
eral of  her  early  friends  have  described  her  to  me.  She 
was  something  like  Gerard — yet  how  unlike  I  In  the  colour 
of  the  eyes  and  hair,  and  the  formation  of  the  features,  they 
resembled;  but  the  expression  was  wholly  different.  Her 
clear  complexion  was  tinged  by  a  pure  blood,  that  ebbed 
and  flowed  rapidly  in  her  veins,  driven  by  the  pulsations  of 
her  soul,  rather  than  of  her  body.  Her  large  dark  eyes 
were  irresistibly  brilliant ;  and  opened  their  lids  on  the 
spectator  with  an  effect  such  as  the  sun  has,  when  it  drops 
majestically  below  a  heavy  cloud,  and  dazzles  the  beholder 
with  its  unexpected  beams.  She  was  vivacious — nay,  wild 
of  spirit;  but  tliuugh  raised  far  above  the  dull  monotony  of 
common  life  by  her  exuberant  joyousness  of  soul,  yet  every 
thought  and  act  was  ruled  by  a  pure  unsullied  heart.  Her 
impulses  were  keen  and  imperative  ;  her  sensibility,  true  to 
the  touch  of  nature,  was  tremblingly  alive  ;  but  their  mor© 


100  FALKNER. 

dangerous  tendencies  were  guarded  by  excellent  principles, 
and  a  truth  never  shadowed  by  a  cloud.  Her  generous  and 
confiding  heart  might  be  duped — might  spring  forward  too 
eagerly — and  she  might  be  imprudent ;  but  she  was  never 
false.  An  ingenuous  confession  of  error,  if  ever  she  fell 
into  it,  purged  away  all  suspicion  that  anything  mysterious 
or  forbidden  lurked  in  her  most  thouglitless  acts.  Other 
Avomen,  who,  like  her,  are  keenly  sensitive,  and  who  are 
driven  by  ungovernable  spirits  to  do  what  they  afterward 
repent,  aad  are  endowed,  as  she  was,  with  an  aptitude  to 
shame  when  rebuked,  guard  their  dignity  or  their  fears  by 
falsehood  ;  and  while  their  conduct  is  essentially  innocent, 
immesh  themselves  in  such  a  web  of  deceit,  as  not  only  ren- 
ders them  absolutely  criminal  in  the  eyes  of  those  who  de- 
tect tliem,  but  in  the  end  hardens  and  perverts  their  better 
nature.  Alithea  Neville  never  sheltered  herself  from  the 
consequences  of  her  faults ;  rather  she  met  them  too  eagerly, 
acknowledged  a  venial  error  with  too  much  contrition,  and 
never  rested  till  she  had  laid  her  heart  bare  to  her  friend  and 
judge,  and  vindicated  its  every  impulse.  To  this  admirable 
frankness,  soft  tenderness,  and  heart-cheering  gayety  was 
added  a  great  store  of  common  sense.  Her  fault,  if  fault  it 
could  be  called,  was  a  too  earnest  craving  for  the  sympathy 
and  affection  of  those  she  loved;  to  obtain  this,  she  was 
unwearied,  nay,  prodigal,  in  her  endeavours  to  please  and 
serve.  Her  generosity  was  a  ready  prompter,  while  her 
sensibility  enlightened  her.  She  sought  love,  and  not  ap- 
plause ;  and  she  obtained  both  from  all  who  knew  her.  To 
sum  up  all  with  the  mention  of  a  defect — though  she  could 
feel  the  dignity  which  an  adherence  to  the  dictates  of  duty 
imparts,  yet  sometimes  going  wrong — sometimes  wounded 
by  censure,  and  always  keenly  alive  to  blame,  she  had  a 
good  deal  of  timidity  in  her  character.  She  was  so  suscep- 
tible to  pain,  that  she  feared  it  too  much,  too  agonizingly  ; 
and  this  terror  of  meeting  anything  harsh  or  grating  in  her 
path  rendered  her  too  diffident  of  herself — too  submissive 
to  authority — too  miserable,  and  too  yielding,  when  any- 
thing disturbed  the  harmony  with  which  she  desired  to  be 
surrounded. 

"  It  was  these  last  qualities,  probably,  that  led  her  to  ac- 
cept Mr.  Neville's  offer.  Her  father  wished  it,  and  she 
obeyed.  He  was  a  retired  lieutenant  in  the  navy.  Sir 
Boyvill  got  him  raised  to  the  rank  of  post  captain ;  and  what 
naval  officer  but  would  feel  unbounded  gratitude  for  such  a 
faA'Our  !  He  was  appointed  to  a  ship — sailed — and  fell  in  an 
engagement  not  many  months  after  his  daughter's  marriage 
— grateful,  even  in  his  last  moments,  that  he  died  command- 
ing the  deck  of  a  man-of-war.  Meanwhile  his  daughter 
bore  the  effects  of  his  promotion  in  a  less  gratifying  way. 
Yet,  at  first,  she  loved  and  esteemed  her  husband.     lie  was 


FALKNER.  101 

not  then  what  he  is  now.  He  was  handsome ;  and  his 
good-breeding  had  the  pohsh  of  the  day.  He  was  popular, 
through  a  sort  of  Uveliness  which  passes  for  wit,  though 
it  was  rather  a  conventional  ease  in  conversation  than  the 
sparkle  of  real  intellect.  Besides,  he  loved  her  to  idolatry. 
Whatever  he  is  now,  still  vehemence  of  passion  forms  his 
characteristic  ;  and  though  the  selfishness  of  his  disposition 
gave  an  evil  bias  even  to  his  love,  yet  it  was  there,  and  for 
a  time  it  shed  its  delusions  over  his  real  character.  While 
her  artless  and  sweet  caresses  could  create  smiles — while 
he  played  the  slave  at  her  feet,  or  folded  her  in  his  arms 
with  genuine  and  undisguised  transport,  even  his  darkei 
nature  was  adorned  by  the,  to  him,  ahen  and  transitory 
magic  of  love. 

"  But  marriage  too  soon  changed  Sir  Boyvill  for  the 
worse.  Close  intimacy  disclosed  the  distortions  of  his 
character.  He  was  a  vain  and  a  selfish  man.  Both  qualities 
rendered  him  exacting  in  the  extreme ;  and  the  first  gave  birth 
to  the  most  outrageous  jealousy.  Alithea  was  too  ingen- 
uous for  him  to  be  able  to  entertain  suspicions;  but  his 
jealousy  was  nourished  by  the  difference  of  their  age  and 
temper.  She  was  nineteen — in  the  first  bloom  of  loveliness 
— in  the  freshest  spring  of  youthful  spirits — too  innocent  to 
suspect  his  doubts — too  kind  in  her  most  joyous  hour  to 
fancy  that  she  could  offend.  He  was  a  man  of  the  world — 
a  thousand  times  had  seen  men  duped  and  women  deceive. 
He  did  not  know  of  the  existence  of  a  truth  as  spotless  and 
uncompromising  as  existed  in  Alithea's  bosom.  He  ima- 
gined that  he  was  marked  out  as  the  old  husband  of  a  young 
wife  ;  he  feared  that  she  would  learn  that  she  might  have 
married  more  happily ;  and,  desirous  of  engrossing  her  all 
to  himself,  a  smile  spent  on  another  was  treason  to  the  ab- 
solute nature  of  his  rights.  At  first  she  was  blind  to  his 
bad  qualities.  A  thousand  times  he  frowned  when  she  was 
gay — a  thousand  times  ill-humour  and  cutting  reproofs  were 
the  results  of  her  appearing  charming  to  others,  before  she 
discovered  the  selfish  and  contemptible  nature  of  his  pas- 
sion, and  became  aware  that,  to  please  him,  she  must  blight 
and  uproot  all  her  accomplishments,  all  her  fascinations ; 
that  she  must  for  ever  curb  her  wish  to  spread  happiness 
around  ;  that  she,  the  very  soul  of  generous,  unsuspecting 
goodness,  must  become  cramped  in  a  sort  of  bed  of  Pro- 
crustes, now  having  one  portion  lopped  off,  and  then  an- 
other, till  the  maimed  and  half-alive  remnant  should  resem- 
ble the  soulless,  niggard  tyrant,  whose  eveiy  thought  and 
feeling  cenired  in  his  Lilliputian  self.  That  she  did  at  last 
make  this  discovery,  cannot  be  doubted ;  though  she  never 
disclosed  her  disappointment,  nor  complained  of  the  tyranny 
from  which  she  suffered.  She  grew  heedful  not  to  displease, 
guarded  in  her  behaviour  to  others,  and  so  accommodated 
9* 


102  FALKNER. 

her  manner  to  his  wishes,  as  showed  that  she  feared,  but 
concealed  that  she  no  longer  esteemed  him.  A  new  reserve 
sprang  up  in  her  character,  which,  after  all,  was  not  reserve  ; 
for  it  was  only  the  result  of  her  fear  to  give  pain,  and  of  her 
unalterable  principles.  Had  she  spoken  of  her  husband's 
faults,  it  would  have  been  to  himself — but  she  had  no  spirit 
of  governing — and  quarrelling  and  contention  were  the  antip- 
odes of  her  nature.  If,  indeed,  this  silent  yielding  to  her 
husband's  despotism  was  contrary  to  her  original  frankness, 
it  was  a  sacrifice  made  to  what  she  esteemed  her  duty, 
and  never  went  beyond  the  silence  which  best  becomes  the 
injured. 

"  It  cannot  be  doubted  that  she  was  alive  to  her  husband's 
faults.  Generous,  she  was  restrained  by  his  selfishness ; 
enthusiastic,  she  was  chilled  by  his  M'orldly  wisdom ;  sym- 
pathetic, she  was  rebuked  by  a  jealousy  that  demanded  every 
feeling.  She  waslike  apoorbird, that  with  untired  wing  would 
mount  gayly  to  the  skies,  when  on  each  side  the  wires  of  the 
aviary  impede  its  flight.  Still  it  was  her  principle  that  we 
ought  not  to  endeavour  to  form  a  destiny  for  ourselves,  but 
to  act  well  our  part  on  the  scene  where  Providence  has 
placed  us.  She  reflected  seriously,  and  perhaps  sadl3S  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life;  and  she  formed  a  system  for  her- 
self, which  would  give  the  largest  extent  to  the  exercise  of 
her  natural  benevolence,  and  yet  obviate  the  suspicions 
and  cure  the  fears  of  her  narrow-minded,  self-engrossed 
husband. 

"  In  pursuance  of  her  scheme,  she  made  it  her  request 
that  they  should  take  up  their  residence  entirely  at  their 
seat  in  the  north  of  England;  giving  up  London  society, 
and  transforming  herself  altogether  into  a  country  lady.  In 
her  benevolent  schemes,  in  the  good  she  could  there  do, 
and  in  the  few  friends  she  could  gather  round  her,  against 
whom  her  husband  could  form  no  possible  objection,  she 
felt  certain  of  possessing  a  considerable  share  of  rational 
happiness — exempt  from  the  hurry  and  excitement  of  town, 
for  which  her  sensitive  and  ardent  mind  rendered  her  very 
unfit,  under  the  guidance  of  a  man  who  at  once  desired  that 
she  should  hold  a  foremost  place,  and  was  yet  disturbed  by 
the  admiration  which  she  ehcited.  Sir  Boyvill  complied 
with  seeming  reluctance,  but  real  exultation.  He  possesses 
a  dehghtful  seat  in  the  southern  part  of  Cumberland.  Here, 
amid  a  simple-hearted  peasantry,  and  in  a  neighbourhood 
where  she  coidd  cultivate  many  social  pleasures,  she  gave 
herself  up  to  a  life  which  would  have  been  one  of  extreme 
happiness,  had  not  the  exactions,  the  selfishness,  the  uncon- 
genial mind  of  Sir  Boyvill  debarred  her  from  the  dearest 
blessings  of  all — sympathy  and  friendship  with  the  partner 
of  her  life. 

"  Still  she  was  contented.    Her  temper  was  sweet  and 


FALKNER.  103 

yielding.  She  did  not  look  on  each  cross  in  circumstance 
as  an  injury  or  a  misfortune  ;  but  rather  as  a  call  on  her 
philosophy,  which  it  was  her  duty  to  meet  cheerfidly.  Her 
heart  was  too  warm  not  to  shrink  with  pain  from  her  hus- 
band's ungenerous  nature,  but  she  had  a  resource,  to  which 
she  gave  herself  up  with  ardour.  She  turned  the  full  but 
checked  tide  of  affections  from  her  husband  to  her  son. 
Gerard  was  all  in  all  to  her — her  hope,  her  joy,  her  idol,  and 
he  returned  her  love  with  more  than  a  child's  affection. 
His  sensibihty  developed  early,  and  she  cultivated  it  perhaps 
too  much.  She  wished  to  secure  a  friend — and  the  tempt- 
ation afforded  by  the  singular  affectionateness  of  his  dis- 
position and  his  great  intelligence  was  too  strong.  Mr. 
Neville  strongly  objected  to  the  excess  to  which  she  car- 
ried her  maternal  cares,  and  augured  ill  of  the  boy's  devotion 
to  her ;  but  here  his  interference  was  vain,  the  mother  could 
not  alter ;  and  the  child,  standing  at  her  side,  eyed  his  father 
even  then  with  a  sort  of  proud  indignation,  on  his  daring  to 
step  in  between  them. 

"  To  Mrs.  Neville,  this  boy  was  as  an  angel  sent  to  comfort 
her.  She  could  not  bear  that  any  one  should  attend  on  him 
except  herself — she  was  his  playmate  and  instructress. 
When  he  opened  his  eyes  from  sleep,  his  mother's  face  was 
the  first  he  saw ;  she  hushed  him  to  rest  at  night — did  he 
hurt  himself,  she  flew  to  his  side  in  agony — did  she  utter 
one  word  of  tender  reproach,  it  curbed  his  childish  passions 
on  the  instant — he  seldom  left  her  side,  but  she  was  young 
enough  to  share  his  pastimes — her  heart  overflowed  with  its 
excess  of  love,  and  he,  even  as  a  mere  child,  regarded  her 
as  something  to  protect,  as  well  as  worship. 

"  Mr.  Neville  was  angry,  and  often  reproved  her  too  great 
partiality,  though  by  degrees  it  won  some  favour  in  his 
eyes.  Gerard  was  his  son  and  heir,  and  he  might  be  sup- 
posed to  have  a  share  in  the  affection  lavished  on  him.  He 
respected,  also,  the  absence  of  frivolous  vanity  that  led  her 
to  be  happv  with  her  child — contented  away  from  London 
— satisfied  m  fulfilling  the  duties  of  her  station,  though  his 
eyes  only  Avere  there  to  admire.  He  persuaded  himself 
that  there  must  exist  much  latent  attachment  towards  him- 
self, to  reconcile  her  to  this  sort  of  exile  ;  and  her  disinter- 
estedness received  the  reward  of  his  confidence — he  who 
never  before  believed  or  respected  woman.  He  began  to 
yield  to  her  more  than  he  was  wont,  and  to  consider  that 
he  ought  now  and  then  to  show  some  approbation  of  her 
conduct. 

"  When  Gei-ard  was  about  six  years  old,  they  went  abroad 
on  a  tour.  Travelling  was  a  mode  of  passing  the  time  that 
accorded  well  with  Mr.  Neville's  matrimonial  view  of  keep- 
ing his  wife  to  himself.  In  the  traveUing  carriage,  he  only 
was  beside  her ;  in  seeing  sights,  he,  who  had  visited  Italy 


104  FALKNER. 

before,  and  had  some  taste,  could  guide  and  instruct  her; 
and  short  as  their  stay  in  each  town  was,  there  was  no  pos- 
sibihty  of  forming  serious  attachments  or  lasting  friend- 
ships ;  at  the  same  time,  his  vanity  was  gratified  by  seeing 
his  wife  and  son  admired  by  strangers  and  natives.  While 
abroad,  Mrs.  Neville  bore  another  child,  a  little  girl.  This 
added  greatly  to  her  domestic  happiness.  Her  husband 
grew  extremely  fond  of  his  baby  daughter;  there  was  too 
much  difference  of  age  to  set  her  up  as  a  rival  to  Gerard ; 
she  was  by  contradistinction  the  father's  darling,  it  is  true  ; 
hut  this  rather  produced  harmony  than  discord — for  the 
mother  loved  both  children  too  well  to  feel  hurt  by  the  pref- 
erence ;  and,  softened  by  having  an  object  he  really  loved 
to  lavish  his  favour  on,  Sir  Boyvill  grew  much  more  of  a 
tender  father  and  indulgent  husband  than  he  had  hitherto 
shown  himself. 


CHAPTER  XVH. 

"  It  was  not  until  a  year  after  their  return  from  abroad 
that  the  events  happened  which  terminated  so  disastrously 
Mrs.  Neville's  career  in  her  own  family.  I  am  perplexed 
how  to  begin  the  narration,  the  story  is  so  confused  and  ob- 
scure ;  the  mystery  that  envelops  the  catastrophe  so  im- 
penetrable ;  the  circumstances  that  we  really  know  so  few, 
and  these  gleaned,  as  it  were,  ear  by  ear,  as  dropped  in  the 
passage  of  the  event ;  so  making,  if  you  will  excuse  my  rus- 
tic metaphor,  a  meager,  ill-assorted  sheaf.  Mrs.  Neville 
had  been  a  wife  nearly  ten  years  ;  never  had  she  done  one 
act  that  could  be  disapproved  by  the  most  circumspect ; 
never  had  she  swerved  from  that  veracity  and  open  line  of 
conduct  which  was  a  safeguard  against  the  mingled  ardour 
and  timidity  of  her  disposition.  It  required  extraordinary 
circumstances  to  taint  her  reputation,  as,  to  say  the  least,  it 
is  tainted ;  and  we  are  still  in  the  dark  as  to  the  main  instru- 
ment by  which  these  circumstances  were  brought  about. 
Their  result  is  too  obvious.  At  one  moment  Mrs.  Neville 
was  an  honoured  and  beloved  wife  ;  a  mother,  whose  heart's 
pulsations  depended  on  the  well-being  of  her  children ;  and 
whose  fond  affection  was  to  them  as  the  sun's  warmth  to 
the  opening  flower.  At  the  next,  where  is  she  ]  Silence 
and  mystery  v^rap  her  from  us  ;  and  surmise  is  busy  in 
tracing  shapes  of  infamy  from  the  fragments  of  truth  that 
we  can  gather. 

"  On  the  return  of  the  family  from  abroad,  they  again  re- 
paired to  their  seat  of  Dromore  ;  and,  at  the  time  to  which 


FALKNER.  105 

I  allude,  Mr.  Neville  had  left  them  there,  to  go  to  London 
on  business.  He  went  for  a  week ;  but  his  stay  was  pro- 
longed to  nearly  two  months.  He  heard  regularly  from  his 
wife.  Her  letters  were  more  full  of  her  children  and  house- 
hold than  herself;  but  they  were  kind;  and  her  maternal 
heart  warmed,  as  she  wrote,  into  anticipations  of  future 
happiness  in  her  children,  greater  even  than  she  now  en- 
joyed. f]very  line  breathed  of  home  and  peace;  every 
word  siemed  to  emanate  from  a  mind  in  which  lurked  no 
concealed  feeling,  no  one  thought  unconfessed  Or  unap- 
proved. To  such  a  home,  cheered  by  so  much  beauty  and 
excellence.  Sir  Boyvill  returned,  as  he  declares,  with  eager 
and  grateful  aflection.  The  lime  came  when  he  was  ex- 
pected at  home ;  and  true,  both  to  the  day  and  to  the  hour, 
he  arrived.  It  was  at  eleven  at  night.  His  carriage  drove 
through  the  grounds ;  the  doors  of  the  house  were  thrown 
open;  several  eager  faces  were  thrust  forward  with  more 
of  curiosity  and  anxiety  than  is  at  all  usual  in  an  English 
household  ;  and  as  he  alighted,  the  servants  looked  aghast, 
and  exchanged  glances  of  terror.  The  truth  was  soon  di- 
vulged. At  about  six  in  the  evening,  Mrs.  Neville,  who 
dined  early  in  the  absence  of  her  husband,  had  gone  to 
walk  in  the  park  with  Gerard ;  since  then,  neither  had  re- 
turned. 

"  When  the  darkness,  which  closed  in  with  a  furious 
wind  and  thunder-storm,  rendered  her  prolonged  absence  a 
matter  of  solicitude,  the  servants  had  gone  to  seek  her  in 
the  grounds.  They  found  their  mistress's  key  in  the  lock 
of  a  small  masked  gate  that  opened  on  a  green  lane.  They 
went  one  way  up  the  lane  to  meet  her ;  but  found  no  trace. 
They  followed  the  other,  with  like  ill  success.  Again  they 
searched  the  park  with  more  care ;  and  again  resorted  to 
the  lanes  and  fields;  but  in  vain.  The  obvious  idea  was, 
that  she  had  taken  shelter  from  the  storm ;  and  a  horrible 
fear  presented  itself,  that  she  might  have  found  no  better 
retreat  than  a  tree  or  hay-rick,  and  that  she  had  been  struck 
by  the  lightning.  A  slight  hope  remained,  that  she  had 
gone  along  the  high-road  to  meet  her  husband,  and  would 
return  with  him.  His  arrival  alone  took  from  them  this  last 
hope. 

'*  The  country  was  now  raised.  Servants  and  tenants 
were  sent  divers  ways  ;  some  on  horseback,  some  on  foot. 
Though  summer-time,  the  night  was  inclement  and  tempes- 
tuous ;  a  furious  west  wind  swept  the  earth ;  high  trees 
were  bowed  to  the  ground  ;  and  the  bias*  howled  and 
roared,  at  once  baffling  and  braving  every  attempt  to  hear 
cries  or  distinguish  sounds. 

"  Dromore  is  situated  in  a  beautiful,  but  wild  and  thinly- 
inhabited  part  of  Cumberland,  on  the  verge  of  the  plain  that 
forms  the  coast  where  it  first  breaks  into  uplands,  dingles, 
E3 


106  FALKNER. 

and  ravines ;  there  is  no  high  road  towards  the  sea — but  as 
they  took  the  one  that  led  to  Lancaster,  they  approached 
the  ocean,  and  the  distant  roar  of  its  breakers  filled  up  the 
pauses  of  the  gale.  It  was  on  this  road,  at  the  distance  of 
some  five  miles  from  the  house,  that  Gerard  was  found. 
He  was  lying  on  the  road  in  a  sort  of  stupor — which  could 
be  hardly  called  sleep — his  clothes  were  drenched  by  the 
storm,  and  his  limbs  stiff  from  cold.  When  first  found, 
and  disturbed,  he  looked  wildly  around  ;  and  his  cry  was 
for  his  mother — terror  was  painted  in  his  face — and  his  in- 
tellects seemed  deranged  by  a  sudden  and  terrific  shock. 
He  was  taken  home.  His  fother  hurried  to  him,  question- 
ing him  eagerly — but  the  cliiid  only  raved  that  his  mother 
was  being  carried  from  him  ;  and  his  pathetic  cry  of  '  Come 
back,  mamma — stop — stop  for  me  !'  filled  every  one  with 
terror  and  amazement.  As  speedily  as  possible,  medic4 
assistance  was  sent  for ;  the  physician  foimd  the  boy  in  a 
high  fever,  the  result  of  fright,  exposure  to  the  storm,  and 
subsequent  sleep  in  his  wet  clothes  in  the  open  air.  It  was 
many  days  before  his  life  could  be  answered  for — or  the 
delirium  left  him — and  still  he  raved  that  his  mother  was 
being  carried  off,  and  would  not  stop  for  him,  and  often  he 
tried  to  rise  from  his  bed  under  the  notion  of  pursuing  her. 

"  At  length  consciousness  returned — consciousness  of 
the  actual  objects  around  him,  mingled  with  an  indistinct 
recollection  of  the  events  that  immediately  preceded  his 
illness.  His  pulse  was  calm  ;  his  reason  restored  ;  and  he 
lay  quietly  with  open  eyes  fixed  on  the  door  of  his  chamber. 
At  last  he  showed  syniptoms  of  uneasiness,  and  asked  for  his 
mother.  Mr.  Neville  was  called,  as  he  had  desired  he  might 
be  the  moment  his  son  showed  signs  of  being  rational. 
Gerard  looked  up  in  his  father's  face  with  an  expression  of 
disappointment,  and  again  murmured,  '  Send  mamma  to  me.' 

"  Fearful  of  renewing  his  fever  by  awakening  his  dis- 
quietude, his  father  told  him  that  mamma  was  tired  and 
asleep,  and  could  not  be  disturbed. 

"  '  Then  she  has  come  back  ]'  he  cried  ;  '  that  man  did 
not  take  her  quite  away  ]     The  carriage  drove  here  at  last.' 

"  Such  words  renewed  all  their  consternation.  Afraid  of 
questioning  the  child  himself,  lest  he  should  terrify  him,  Mr. 
Neville  sent  the  nurse  who  had  been  with  him  from  infan- 
cy, to  extract  information.  His  story  was  wild  and  strange ; 
and  here  I  nuist  remark,  that  the  account  drawn  from  him 
by  the  woman's  questions  differs  somewhat  from  that  to 
which  he  aftel^vard  adhered  ;  though  not  so  nmch  hi  actual 
circumstances  as  in  the  colouring  given.  This  his  father 
attributes  to  his  subsequent  endeavours  to  clear  his  mother 
from  blame  ;  while  he  asserts,  and  I  believe  with  truth,  that 
time  and  knowledge,  by  giving  him  an  insight  into  motives, 
threw  a  new  light  on  the  words  and  actions  which  he  re- 


FALKNER.  107 

membered ;  and  that  circumstances  wliich  bore  one  aspect 
to  his  ignorance,  became  clearly  visible  in  another,  when 
he  was  able  to  understand  the  real  meaning  of  several 
fragments  of  conversation  which  had  at  first  been  devoid  of 
sense. 

"  All  that  he  could  tell  during  this  first  stage  of  inquiry- 
was,  that  his  mother  had  taken  him  to  walk  with  her  in  the 
grounds,  that  she  had  unlocked  the  gate  that  opened  out  on 
the  lane  with  her  own  key,  and  that  a  gentleman  was  with- 
out waiting. 

"  Had  he  ever  seen  the  gentleman  before  ? 

"  Never;  he  did  not  know  him,  and  the  stranger  took  no 
notice  of  him ;  he  heard  his  mamma  call  him  Rupert. 

"His  mother  took  the  stranger's  arm,  and  walked  on 
through  the  lane,  while  he  sometimes  ran  on  before,  and 
sometimes  remained  at  her  side.  They  conversed  earnestly, 
and  his  mother  at  one  time  cried ;  he,  Gerard,  felt  very  an- 
gry with  the  gentleman  for  making  her  cry,  and  took  her 
hand,  and  begged  her  to  leave  him  and  come  away ;  but  she 
kissed  the  boy,  told  him  to  run  on,  and  they  would  return 
very  soon. 
■  *'  Yet  they  did  not  return,  but  walked  on  to  where  the 
lane  was  intersected  by  the  high-road.  Here  they  stopped, 
and  continued  to  converse ;  but  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
saying  good-by  to  the  stranger,  when  a  carriage,  driven  at 
full  speed,  was  seen  approachmg ;  it  stopped  close  to  them  ; 
it  was  an  open  carriage,  a  sort  of  caleche,  with  the  head 
pulled  forward  low  down ;  as  it  stopped  his  mother  went  up 
to  it,  when  the  stranger,  pulling  tlie  child's  hand  from  hers, 
hurried  her  into  the  carriage,  and  sprang  in  after, "crying  out 
to  him,  'Jump  in,  my  boy!'  but,  before  he  could  do  so,  the 
postillion  whipped  the  horses,  who  started  forward  almost 
with  a  bound,  and  were  in  a  gallop  on  the  instant ;  he  heard 
his  mother  scream ;  the  words  '  My  child  !  my  son !"  reached 
his  ears,  shrieked  in  agony.  He  ran  wildly  after  the  car- 
riage ;  it  disappeared,  but  still  he  ran  on.  It  must  stop 
somewhere,  and  he  would  reach  it — his  mother  had  called 
for  him  ;  and  thus,  crying,  breathless,  panting,  he  ran  along 
the  high-road ;  the  carriage  had  long  been  out  of  sight,  the 
sun  had  set;  the  wind,  rising  in  gusts,  brought  on  the  thun- 
der-storm ;  yet  still  he  pursued,  till  nature  and  his  boyish 
strength  gave  way,  and  he  threw  himself  on  the  ground  to 
gain  breath.  At  every  sound  which  he  fancied  might  be  that 
of  carriage-wheels,  he  started  up ;  but  it  was  only  the  howl- 
ing of  the  blast  in  the  trees,  and  the  hoarse  muttering  of  the 
now  distant  thunder;  twice  and  thrice  he  rose  from  the 
earth  and  ran  forward;  till,  wet  throug'a  and  utterly  ex- 
hausted, he  lay  on  the  ground,  weeping  bitterly,  and  expect- 
ing to  die. 

"  'I'his  was  all  his  story.  It  produced  a  strict  inquiry 
amor.g  tlic  servants,  and  then  circumstances  scarcelj^  ad- 


1(®  FALKNER. 

verted  to  were  remembered,  and  some  sort  of  information 
gained.  About  a  week  or  ten  days  before,  a  gentleman  on 
horseback,  unattended  by  any  servant,  had  called.  He  asked 
for  Mrs.  Neville  ;  the  servant  requested  his  name,  but  he 
muttered  that  it  was  no  matter.  He  was  ushered  into  the 
room  where  their  mistress  was  sitting ;  he  stayed  at  least 
two  hours  ;  and,  when  he  was  gone,  they  remarked  that  her 
eyes  were  red,  as  if  she  had  been  weeping.  The  stranger 
called  again,  and  Mrs.  Neville  was  denied  to  him. 

"  Inquiries  were  now  instituted  in  the  neighbourhood. 
One  or  two  persons  remembered  something  of  a  stranger 
gentleman  who  had  been  seen  riding  about  the  country, 
mounted  on  a  fine  bay  horse.  One  evening  he  was  seen 
coming  from  the  masked  gate  in  the  park,  which  caused  it 
to  be  believed  that  he  was  on  a  visit  at  Dromore.  Nothing 
more  was  known  of  him. 

"  The  servants  tasked  themselves  to  remember  more  par- 
ticularly the  actions  of  their  lady,  and  it  was  remembered 
that  one  evening  she  went  to  walk  alone  in  the  grounds, 
some  accident  having  prevented  Gerard  from  accompanying 
her.  She  returned  very  late,  at  ten  o'clock ;  and  there  was, 
her  maid  declared,  a  good  deal  of  confusion  in  her  manner. 
She  threw  herself  on  a  sofa,  ordered  the  lights  to  be  taken 
away,  and  remained  alone  for  two  hours  past  her  usual  time 
for  retiring  for  the  night,  till,  at  last,  her  maid  ventured  in  to 
ask  her  if  she  needed  anything.  She  was  awake,  and,  when 
lights  were  brought,  had  evidently  been  weeping.  After 
this  she  only  went  out  in  the  carriage  with  the  children, 
until  the  fatal  night  of  her  disappearance.  It  was  remem- 
bered, also,  that  she  received  several  letters,  brought  by  a 
strange  man,  who  left  them  without  waiting  for  any  answer. 
She  received  one  the  very  morning  of  the  day  when  she  left 
her  home,  and  this  last  note  was  found;  it  threw  some  light 
on  the  fatal  mystery.  It  was  only  dated  with  the  day  of 
the  week,  and  began  abruptly  : — 

"  '  On  one  condition  I  will  obey  you ;  I  will  never  see  you 
more — I  will  leave  the  country — I  will  forget  my  threats 
against  the  most  hated  life  in  the  world ;  he  is  safe  on  one 
condition.  You  must  meet  me  this  evening ;  I  desire  to  see 
you  for  the  last  time.  Come  to  the  gate  of  your  park  that 
opens  on  the  lane,  which  you  opened  for  me  a  few  nights 
ago  ;  you  will  find  me  waiting  outside.  I  will  not  detain 
you  long.  A  farewell  to  you  and  to  my  just  revenge  shall 
be  breathed  at  once.  If  you  do  not  come  I  will  wait  till 
night,  till  I  am  past  hope,  and  then  enter  your  grounds,  wait 
till  he  returns,  and — oh,  do  not  force  me  to  say  what  you 
will  call  wicked  and  worse  than  unkind,  but  come,  come, 
and  prevent  all  ill.  I  charge  you  come,  and  hereafter  you 
shall,  if  you  please,  be  for  ever  delivered  from  your 

" '  Rupert.' 


FALKNER.  '  109 

"  On  this  letter  she  went ;  yet  in  innocence,  for  she  to6k 
her  child  with  her.  Could  any  one  doibt  Jhat  she  was  be- 
trayed, carried  off,  the  victim  of  the  foKlest  treachery?  No 
one  did  doubt  it.  Police  were  sent  for  f'on;  London,  the  coun- 
try searched,  the  most  minute  inquiries  set  on  foot.  Some- 
times it  was  supposed  tliat  a  clew  was  /ound,  but  in  the  end 
all  failed.  Month  after  month  passal ;  hope  became  de- 
spair ;  pity  merged  into  surmise  ;  and  condemnation  quickly 
followed.  If  she  had  been  carried  forcibly  from  her  home, 
still  she  could  not  for  ever  be  imprisoned  and  debarred  from 
all  possibility  at  least  of  writing.  She  ;iiight  have  sent  ti- 
dings from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  nay,  it  was  madness  to 
think  that  she  could  be  carried  far  against  her  own  will.  In 
any  town,  in  any  village,  she  mighr  appeal  to  the  justice 
and  humanity  of  her  fellow-creature*,  and  be  set  free.  She 
would  not  have  remained  with  tl^e  man  of  violence  who 
had  torn  her  away,  unless  she  ha^  at  last  become  a  party  in 
his  act,  and  lost  all  right  to  retiyli  to  her  husband's  roof. 

"Such  suspicions  began  to>reep  about — rather  felt  in 
men's  minds  than  inferred  in  t'eir  speech — till  her  husband 
first  uttered  the  fatal  word;  ffid  then,  as  if  set  free  from  a 
spell,  each  one  was  full  of  j/idignution  at  her  dereliction  and 
his  injuries.  Sir  Boyvill  v'as  beyond  all  men  vain — vanity 
rendered  him  liable  to  jealousy — and,  when  jealous,  full  of 
sore  and  angay  feelinp^-  His  selfishness  and  unforgiving 
nature,  which  had  be^n  neutralized  by  his  wife's  virtues, 
now,  quickened  by  ti'ie  idea  of  her  guilt,  burst  forth  and  en- 
grossed every  otho*"  emotion.  He  was  injured  there  where 
the  pride  of  man  is  most  accessible — branded  by  pity — the 
tale  of  the  worl^.  He  had  feared  such  a  catastrophe  du- 
ring the  first  y<*ars  of  his  wedded  life,  being  conscious  of 
the  difference  which  age  and  nature  had  placed  between 
him  and  hi*  wife.  In  the  recesses  of  his  heart  he  had  felt 
deeply  grateful  to  her  for  having  dissipated  these  fears. 
From  th^  moment  that  her  prudent  conduct  had  made  him 
secure,  he  had  become  another  man — as  far  as  his  defective 
natur*  and  narrow  mind  permitted — he  had  grown  virtuous 
and  disinterested ;  but  this  fabric  of  good  qualities  was  the 
re.sult  of  her  influence ;  and  it  was  swept  away  and  utterly 
erased  from  the  moment  she  left  him,  and  that  love  and 
esteem  were  exchanged  for  contempt  and  hatred. 

"  Soon,  very  soon,  had  doubts  of  his  wife's  allegiance 
and  a  suspicion  of  her  connivance  insinuated  themselves. 
Like  all  evilly-inclined  persons,  he  jumped  at  once  into  a 
belief  of  the  worst ;  her  taking  her  son  with  her  was  a  mere 
contrivance,  or  worse,  since  her  design  had  probably  been 
to  carry  him  with  her — a  design  frustrated  by  accident,  and 
the  lukewarmness  of  her  lover  on  that  point ;  the  letter  left 
behind  he  looked  on  as  a  fabrication,  left  there  to  gloss 
Over  her  conduct.  He  forgot  her  patient  goodness — her  pu- 
10 


110  FALKNER. 

riy  of  soul— her  devoted  attachment  to  her  children— her 
truth ;  and  attributed  at  once  the  basest  artifice— the  gross- 
est want  of  feeling.  Want  of  feeling  in  her !  She  whose 
pulses  quickened  ani  whose  blushes  were  called  up  at  a 
word ;  she  who  idolized  her  child  even  to  a  fault,  and  whose 
tender  sympathy  vv?s  alive  to  every  call ;  but  these  demon- 
strations of  sensibility  grew  into  accusations.  Her  very 
goodness  and  guarded  propriety  were  against  her.  Why 
appear  so  perfeet,  except  to  blind?  Why  seclude  herself, 
except  from  fear-;  which  r^al  virtue  need  never  entertain  ? 
Why  foster  the  morbid  sens'ibility  of  her  child,  except  from 
a  craving  for  that  ejcitement  which  is  a  token  of  depravity  ? 
In  this  bad  world  we  are  apt  to  consider  every  deviation 
from  stony  apathy  as  tending  at  last  to  the  indulgence  of 
passions  against  whic?i  society  has  declared  a  ban ;  and 
thus  with  poor  Alithea,  ill  could  see,  it  was  said,  that  a  na- 
ture so  sensitive  must  eni.  in  ill  at  last ;  and  that,  if  tempted, 
she  must  yield  to  an  iuflutuce  which  few,  even  of  the  cold- 
est natures,  can  resist. 

"  While  Sir  Boyvill  revOved  these  thoughts,  he  grew 
gloomy  and  sullen.  At  first  ijs  increased  unhappiness  was 
attributed  to  sorrow  ;  but  a  ittle  word  betrayed  the  real 
source — a  Utile  word  tliat  namecliis  wife  with  scorn.  That 
word  turned  the  tide  of  public  beling ;  and  she,  who  had 
been  pitied  and  wept  as  dead,  was  low  regarded  as  a  volun- 
tary deserter  from  her  home.  Her  Vvtues  were  remember- 
ed against  her ;  and  surmises,  wliici.  before  would  have 
been  reprobated  almost  as  blasphemy,  became  current -as 
undoubted  truths. 

"  It  was  long  before  Gerard  became  aware  of  this  altered 
feeling.  The  minds  of  children  are  such  a^iystery  to  us '. 
They  are  so  blank,  yet  so  susceptible  of  impression,  that 
the  point  where  ignorance  ends  and  knowledge  is  perfected 
is  an  enigma  often  impossible  to  solve.  From  th«  time  that 
lie  rose  from  his  sick-bed,  the  boy  was  perpetually  on  the 
watch  for  intelligence — eagerly  inquiring  what  discoveries 
were  made — what  means  were  used  for,  wliat  hopes  enter- 
tained of,  his  mother's  rescue.  He  had  asked  his  father 
whether  he  should  not  be  justified  in  shooting  the  villain 
who  had  stolen  her  if  ever  he  met  him.  He  had  shed  tears 
of  sorrow  and  pity  until  indignation  swallowed  up  each 
softer  feeling,  and  a  desire  to  succour  and  to  avenge  became 
paramount.  His  dear,  dear  mother!  tliat  she  slioiild  be 
away — kept  from  him  by  force — that  he  could  not  find — not 
get  at  her,  were  ideas  to  incense  his  young  heart  to  its  very 
height  of  impatience  and  rage.  Every  one  seemed  too 
tame — too  devoid  of  expedients  and  energy.  It  appeared 
an  easy  thing  to  measure  the  whole  earth,  step  by  step,  and 
inch  by  inch,  leaving  no  portion  uninspected  till  she  was 
found  and  liberated.    He  longed  to  set  off  on  such  an  expe- 


PALKNER.  Ill 

dition ;  it  was  his  dream  by  night  and  day ;  and  he  commu- 
nicated these  bursting  fcehngs  to  every  one,  with  an  over- 
flowing eloquence,  inexpressibly  touching  from  its  truth  and 
earnestness. 

"  Suddenly  he  felt  the  change.  Perhaps  some  officious 
domestic  suggested  tlie  idea.  He  says  himself,  it  came  on 
him  as  infection  may  be  caiiglit  by  one  who  enters  an  hos- 
pital. H«  saw  it  in  tlie  eyes — he  felt  it  in  the  air  and  man- 
ner of  all :  his  mother  was  believed  to  be  a  voluntary  fugi- 
tive ;  of  her  own  accord  she  went,  and  never  would  return. 
At  the  thought  his  heart  grew  sick  within  him : — 

"  '  To  see  his  nobleness  ! 
Conceiving  the  dishonour  of  his  mother, 
He  straight  declined  upon't,  drooped,  took  it  deeply  ; 
Fastened  and  tixed  the  shame  on't  in  himself; 
Threw  off  his  spirit,  his  appetite,  his  sleep. 
And  downright  languished.' 

He  refused  food,  and  turned  in  disgust  from  every  former 
'pursuit.  Hitherto  he  had  ardently  longed  for  the  return  of 
his  mother;  and  it  seemed  to  him  th.'vt,  give  his  limbs  but  a 
manlier  growtli,  let  a  few  years  go  over,  and  he  should  find 
and  bring  her  back  in  triumph.  But  that  contumely  and 
disgrace  should  fall  on  that  dear  mother's  head — how  could 
he  avert  that  T  The  evil  was  remediless,  and  death  was 
slight  in  comparison.  One  day  he  walked  up  to  his  father, 
and  fixing  his  clear  young  eyes  upon  him,  said,  '  I  know 
what  you  think,  but  it  is  not  true.  Mamma  would  come 
back  if  she  could.  When  I  am  a  man  1  will  find  and  bring 
her  back,  and  you  will  be  sorry  then !' 

"  What  more  he  would  have  said  was  lost  in  sobs.  His 
heart  had  beat  impetuously  as  he  had  worked  on  himself  to 
address  his  father,  and  assert  his  mother's  truth ;  but  the 
consciousness  that  she  was  indeed  gone,  and  that  for  years 
there  was  no  hope  of  seeing  her,  broke  in — his  throat 
swelled,  he  felt  suffocated,  and  fell  down  in  a  fit." 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

Ladv  Cecil  had  broken  off  her  tale  on  their  return  from 
their  morning  drive.  She  resumed  it  in  the  evening,  as  she 
and  Elizabeth  sat  looking  on  the  summer  woods ;  and  the 
soft  but  dim  twilight  better  accorded  with  her  melancholy 
story. 

"  Poor  Gerard  !  His  young  heart  was  almost  broken  by 
strugghng  passions,  and  the  want  of  tenderness  in  those 
about  him.    After  this  scene  with  his  father,  his  life  was 


112  FALKNER. 

again  in  the  greatest  danger  for  some  days,  but  at  last  health 
of  body  returned.  He  lay  on  his  little  couch,  pale  and 
wasted,  an  altered  child — but  his  heart  was  the  same,  and 
he  adhered  tenaciously  to  one  idea.  '  Nurse,'  he  said,  one 
day,  to  the  woman  wlio  had  attended  him  from  his  birth,  '  I 
wish  you  would  take  pen  and  paper,  and  write  down  what 
I  am  going  to  say.  Or,  if  that  is  too  much  trouble,  I  wish 
you  would  remember  every  word,  and  repeat  it  to  my  father. 
I  cannot  speak  to  him.  He  does  not  love  mamma  as  he 
used ;  he  is  unjust,  and  I  cannot  speak  to  him — but  I  wish 
to  tell  every  little  thing  that  happened,  that  people  may  see 
that  what  1  say  is  true,  and  be  as  sure  as  I  am  that  mamma 
never  meant  to  go  away. 

"  '  When  we  met  the  strange  gentleman  first,  we  walked 
along  the  lane,  and  I  ran  about  gathering  flowers — yet  I  re- 
member I  kept  thinking,  Why  is  mamma  offended  with  that 
gentleman  1 — what  right  has  he  to  displease  her  1  and  I 
came  back  with  it  in  my  mind  to  tell  him  that  he  should 
not  say  anything  to  annoy  mamma ;  but  when  I  took  her 
hand  she  seemed  no  longer  angry,  but  very,  very  sorry.  I 
remember  she  said,  "  I  grieve  deeply  for  you,  Rupert" — and 
then  she  added,  "  My  good  wishes  are  all  I  have  to  give." 
I  remember  the  words,  for  they  made  me  fancy,  in  a  most 
childish  manner,  mamma  must  have  left  her  purse  at  home 
— and  I  began  to  think  of  my  own — but  seeing  him  so  well 
dressed,  1  felt  a  few  shillings  would  do  him  no  good.  Mam- 
ma talked  on  very  softly,  looking  up  in  the  stranger's  face ; 
he  was  tall — taller,  younger — and  better  looking  than  papa : 
and  I  ran  on  again,  for  I  did  not  know  what  they  were  talk- 
ing about.  At  one  time  mamma  called  me  and  said  she 
would  go  back,  and  I  was  very  glad,  for  it  was  growing 
late,  and  I  felt  hungry — but  the  stranger  said,  "Only  a  little 
farther — to  the  end  of  the  lane  only" — so  we  walked  on, 
and  he  talked  about  her  forgetting  him,  and  she  said  some- 
thing that  that  was  best,  and  he  ought  to  forget  her.  Oa 
this  he  burst  forth  very  angrily,  and  I  grew  angry  too — but 
he  changed,  and  asked  her  to  forgive  him — and  so  we  reach- 
ed the  end  of  the  lane. 

" '  We  stopped  there,  and  mamma  held  out  her  hand,  and 
said — "  Farewell !" — and  something  more — when  suddenly 
we  heard  the  sound  of  wheels,  and  a  carriage  came  at  full 
speed  round  from  a  turn  in  the  road  ;  it  stopped  close  to  us 
— her  hand  trembled  which  held  mine — and  the  stranger  said 
— "  You  see  I  said  true — I  am  going — and  shall  soon  be  far 
distant :  I  ask  but  for  one  half  hour — sit  in  the  carriage,  it 
is  getting  cold."  Mamma  said,  "  No,  no — it  is  late — fare- 
well ;"  but  as  she  spoke  the  stranger  as  it  were  led  her  for- 
ward, and  in  a  moment  lifted  her  up  ;  he  seemed  stronger 
than  any  two  men — and  put  her  in  the  carriage — and  got  in 
himself,  crying  to  me  to  jump  after,  which  I  would  have 


FALKNER.  113 

donie,  but  the  postillion  whipped  the  horses.  I  was  thrown 
almost  under  the  wheel  by  the  sudden  motion — I  heard 
mamma  scream  ;  but  when  I  got  up  the  carriage  was  already 
a  long  way  off — and  though  I  called  as  loud  as  I  could — and 
ran  after  it — it  never  stopped,  and  the  horses  were  going  at 
full  gallop.  I  ran  on — thinking  it  would  stop  or  turn  back — 
and  I  cried  out  on  mamma — while  I  ran  so  fast  that  I  was 
soon  breathless — and  she  was  out  of  hearing — and  then  I 
shrieked  and  cried,  and  threw  myself  on  the  ground — till  I 
thought  I  heard  wheels,  and  I  got  up  and  ran  again — but  it 
was  only  the  thunder — and  that  pealed  and  the  wind  roared, 
and  the  rain  came  down — and  I  could  keep  my  feet  no 
longer,  but  fell  on  the  ground  and  forgot  everything,  except 
that  mamma  must  come  back  and  I  was  watching  for  her. 
And  this,  nurse,  is  my  story — every  word  is  true — and  is  it 
not  plain  that  mamma  was  carried  away  by  force  V 

"'Yes,'  said  the  womun,  'no  one  doubts  that.  Master 
Gerard — but  why  does  she  not  come  back  ^ — no  man  could 
k-eep  her  against  her  will  in  a  Christian  country  like  this.' 

"'  Because  she  is  dead  or  in  prison,'  cried  the  boy,  burst- 
ing into  tears — *  but  I  see  3'ou  are  as  wicked  as  everj'body 
else — and  have  wicked  thoughts  too — and  I  hate  you  and 
everybody — except  manima.' 

"  From  that  time  Gerard  was  entirely  altered  ;  his  boyish 
spirit  was  dashed — he  brooded  perpetually  over  the  wrong 
done  his  mother — and  was  irritated  to  madness,  by  feeling 
that  by  a  look  and  a  word  he  could  not  make  others  share 
his  belief  in  her  spotless  innocence.  He  became  sullen, 
shy — shut  up  in  himself — above  all,  he  shunned  his  father. 
Months  passed  away  :  requisitions,  set  on  foot  at  first  from 
a  desire  to  succour,  were  continued  from  a  resolve  to  re- 
venge ;  no  pains  or  expense  were  spared  to  discover  the 
fugitives,  and  all  in  vain.  The  opinion  took  root  that  they 
had  fled  to  America — and  who  on  that  vast  continent  could 
find  two  beings  resolved  on  concealment  ?  Inquiries  were 
made  at  New-York  and  other  principal  towns ;  but  all  in 
vain. 

"  The  strangest  and  most  baffling  circumstance  in  this 
mystery  was,  that  no  guess  could  be  formed  as  to  who  the 
stranger  was.  Though  he  seemed  to  have  dropped  from 
the  clouds,  he  had  evidently  been  known  long  before  to 
Mrs.  Neville.  His  name,  it  appeared,  v.-as  Rupert — no  one 
knew  of  any  bearing  that  name.  Had  Alithea  loved  before 
her  marriage  ^  such  a  circumstance  must  have  been  care- 
fully hidden,  for  her  husband  had  never  suspected  it.  Her 
childhood  had  been  spent  with  her  mother,  her  father  being 
mostly  at  sea.  When  sixteen,  she  lost  her  mother,  and 
after  a  short  interval  resided  with  her  father,  then  retired 
from  service.  He  had  assured  Sir  Boyvili  that  his  daughter 
had  never  loved;  and  the  husband,  jealous  as  he  was,  had 
10* 


114  PALKNER. 

never  seen  cause  to  doubt  the  truth  of  this  statement.  Had 
she  formed  any  attachment  during  the  first  years  of  her 
married  hfe  T  Was  it  to  escape  the  temptation  so  held  ou 
that  she  sechided  herself  in  the  country  1  Rupert  was 
probably  a  feigned  name ;  and  Sir  Boyvill  tried  to  recollect 
who  her  favourites  were,  so  to  find  a  clew  by  their  actions 
to  her  disappearance.  It  was  in  vain  that  he  called  to  mind 
every  minute  circumstance,  and  pondered  over  the  name  of 
each  visiter  :  he  could  remember  nothing  that  helped  dis- 
covery. Yet  the  idea  that  she  had,  several  years  ago,  con- 
ceived a  partiality  for  some  man,  who,  as  it  proved,  loved 
her  to  distraction,  became  fixed  in  Sir  BoyvilFs  mind.  The 
thought  poured  venom  on  the  time  gone  by.  It  might  have 
been  a  virtue  in  her  to  banish  him  she  loved  and  to  secliide 
herself;  but  this  mystery,  where  all  seemed  so  frank  and 
open,  this  defalcation  of  the  heart,  this  inward  thought 
which  made  no  sign,  yet  ruled  every  action,  was  gall  and 
wormwood  to  her  proud,  susceptible  husband.  That  in  her 
secret  soul  she  loved  this  other,  was  manifest — for  though 
it  might  be  admitted  that  he  used  art  and  violence  to  tear 
her  from  her  home,  yet  in  the  end  she  was  vanquished  ; 
and  even  maternal  duties  and  affections  sacrificed  to  irresist- 
ible passion. 

"  Can  you  wonder  that  such  a  man  as  Sir  Boyvill, 
ever  engrossed  by  the  mighty  idea  of  self — yet  fearful  that 
that  self  should  receive  the  minutest  wound ;  proud  of  his 
wife — because,  being  so  lovely  and  so  admired,  she  was  all 
his — grateful  to  her,  for  being  so  glorious  and  enviable  a 
possession — can  you  wonder  that  this  vain  but  sensitive 
man  should  be  wound  up  to  the  height  of  jealous  rage  by 
the  loss  of  such  a  good,  accompanied  by  circumstances  of 
deception  and  dishonour  ]  He  had  been  fond  of  his  wife  in 
return  for  her  aff"ection,  while  she  in  reality  loved  another ; 
he  had  respected  the  perfection  of  her  truth,  and  there  was 
falsehood  at  the  core.  Had  she  avowed  the  traitor  pas- 
sion ;  declared  her  struggles,  and,  laying  bare  her  heart, 
confessed  that,  while  she  preferred  his  honour  and  happi- 
ness, yet  in  the  weakness  of  her  nature  another  had  stolen 
a  portion  of  that  sentiment  which  she  desired  to  consecrate 
10  him — then  with  what  tenderness  he  had  forgiven  her — with 
M'hat  soothing  forbearance  he  had  borne  her  fault — how 
magnanimous  and  merciful  he  had  shown  himself!  But 
she  had  acted  the  generous  part  ;  thanks  had  come  from 
him — the  shows  of  obligation  from  her.  He  fancied  that 
he  held  a  flower  in  his  hand,  from  which  the  sweetest  per- 
fume alone  could  be  extracted — but  the  germe  was  blighted, 
and  the  very  core  turned  to  bitter  ashes  and  dust. 

"  Such  a  theme  is  painful ;  howsoever  we  view  it,  it  is 
scarcely  possible  to  imagine  any  event  in  life  more  desola- 
ting.   To  be  happy  is  to  attain  cue's  wishes,  and  to  look 


FALKNER.  115 

forward  to  the  lastingness  of  their  possession.  Sir  Boy- 
vill  had  long  been  skeptical  and  distrusting  ;  but  at  last  he 
was  brought  to  believe  that  he  had  drawn  the  fortunate 
ticket ;  that  his  wife's  faith  was  a  pure  and  perfect  chryso- 
lite— and  if  in  his  heart  he  deemed  that  she  did  not  regard 
him  with  all  the  reverence  that  was  his  due  ;  if  she  did  not 
nurture  all  the  pride  of  place,  and  disdain  of  her  fellow- 
creatures  which  he  thought  that  his  wife  ought  to  feel — yet 
her  many  charms  and  virtues  left  him  no  room  for  com- 
plaint. Her  sensibihty,  her  vivacity,  her  wit,  her  accom- 
plishments, her  exceeding  loveliness— they  were  all  unde- 
niably his — and  all  made  her  a  piece  of  enchantment.  This 
merit  was  laid  low — deprived  of  its  crown — her  fidelity  to 
him  ;  and  the  selfish,  the  heartless,  and  the  cold  whom  she 
reproved  and  disliked,  were  hfted  to  the  eminence  of  virtue, 
while  she  lay  fallen,  degraded,  worthless. 

"  Sir  Boyvill  was,  in  his  own  conceit,  for  ever  placed  on 
a  pedestal ;  and  he  loved  to  imagine  that  he  coidd  say, '  Look 
at  me,  you  can  see  no  defect !  I  am  a  wealthy  and  a  well- 
born man.  I  have  a  wife  the  envy  of  all — children  who 
promise  to  inherit  all  our  virtues.  I  am  prosperous — no 
harm  can  reach  me — look  at  me !'  He  was  still  on  his  ped- 
estal, but  had  become  a  mark  for  scorn,  for  pity!  Oh, 
how  he  loathed  himself — how  he  abhorred  her  who  had 
brought  him  to  this  pass  !  He  had,  in  her  best  days,  often 
fancied  that  he  loved  her  too  well,  yielded  too  often  his 
pride-nurtured  schemes  to  her  soft  persuasions.  He  had 
indeed  believed  that  Providence  had  created  this  exquisite 
and  most  beautiful  being,  that  life  might  be  made  perfect  to 
him.  Besides,  his  months,  and  days,  and  hours  had  been 
replete  with  her  image  ;  her  very  admirable  qualities,  ac- 
companied as  they  were  by  the  trembling  delicacy  that 
droops  at  a  touch,  and  then  revives  at  a  word ;  her  quick- 
ness, not  of  temper,  but  of  feeling,  which  received  such  sud- 
den and  powerful  impression,  formed  her  to  be  at  once  ad- 
mired and  cherished  with  the  care  a  sweet  exotic  needs, 
when  transplanted  from  its  sunny,  native  clime,  to  the  un- 
genial  temperature  of  a  northern  land.  It  was  madness  to 
recollect  all  the  fears  he  had  wasted  on  her.  He  had  fore- 
gone the  dignity  of  manhood  to  wait  on  her — he  had  often 
feared  to  pursue  his  projects,  lest  they  should  jar  some  del- 
icate chord  in  her  frame  ;  to  his  own  recollection,  it  seemed 
that  he  had  become  but  the  lackey  to  her  behests — and  all 
for  the  sake  of  a  love  which  she  bestowed  on  another — 
to  preserve  that  honour  which  she  blasted  without  pity. 

"  It  were  in  vain  to  attempt  to  delineate  the  full  force  of 
jealousy;  natural  sorrow  at  losing  a  thing  so  sweet  and 
dear  was  blended  with  anger  that  he  should  be  thrown  off 
by  her ;  the  misery  of  knowing  that  he  should  never  see 
her  more  was  mingled  witJi  a  ferocious  desire  to  learn  that 


116  PALKNER. 

every  disaster  was  heaped  on  one  whom,  hitherto,  he  had,  as 
well  as  he  could,  guarded  from  every  ill.  To  this  we  may 
add,  commiseration  for  his  deserted  children.  His  son,  late 
so  animated,  so  free-spirited  and  joyous,  a  more  promising 
child  had  never  blessed  a  father's  hopes,  was  changed  into 
a  brooding,  grief-struck,  blighted  visionary.  His  little  girl, 
the  fairy  thnig  he  loved  best  of  all.  she  was  taken  from 
him;  the  carelessness  of  a  nurse  during  a  childish  iUness 
caused  her  death,  within  a  year  after  her  mother's  flight. 
Had  that  mother  remained,  such  carelessness  had  been  im- 
possible. Sir  Eoyvill  felt  that  all  good  fell  from  him — the 
only  remaining  golden  fruit  dropped  from  the  tree — calami- 
ty encompassed  him;  with  his  whole  soul  he  abhorred  and 
desired  to  wreak  vengeance  on  her  who  caused  the  ill. 

"  After  two  years  were  passed,  and  no  tidhigs  were  re- 
ceived of  the  fugitives,  it  seemed  plain  that  there  could  be 
but  one  solution  to  the  mystery.  No  doubt  she  and  her 
lover  concealed  themselves  in  some  far  land,  under  a  feigned 
name.  If,  indeed,  it  were — if  it  be  so,  it  might  move  any 
heart  to  imagine  poor  Alithea's  misery — the  obloquy  that 
mantles  over  her  remembrance  at  home,  while  she  broods 
over  the  desolation  of  the  hearth  she  so  long  adorned,  and 
the  pining,  impatient  anguish  of  her  beloved  boy.  What 
could  or  can  keep  her  away,  is  matter  of  fearful  conjecture; 
but  this  much  is  certain,  that,  at  that  time  at  least,  and  now, 
if  she  sui-vives,  she  must  be  miserable.  Sir  Boyvill,  if  he 
deigned  to  recollect  these  things,  enjoyed  the  idea  of  her 
anguish.  But,  witliout  adverting  to  her  state  and  feelings, 
he  was  desirous  of  obtaining  what  reparation  he  could,  and 
to  dispossess  her  of  his  name.  Endeavours  to  find  the  fugi- 
tives in  America,  and  false  hopes  held  out,  had  delayed  the 
process.  He  at  last  entered  on  it  with  eagerness.  A  thou- 
sand obvious  reasons  rendered  a  divorce  desirable ;  and  to 
him,  with  all  his  pride,  then  only  would  his  pillow  be  with- 
out a  thorn,  when  she  lost  his  name,  and  eveiy  right  or  tie 
that  bound  them  together.  Under  the  singidar  circum- 
stances of  the  case,  he  could  only  obtain  a  divorce  by  a 
bill  in  parliament,  and  to  this  measure  he  resorted. 

"  There  was  nothing  reprehensible  in  this  step  ;  self-de- 
fence, as  well  as  revenge,  suggested  its  expediency.  Be- 
sides this,  it  may  be  said,  that  he  was  glad  of  the  publicity 
that  would  ensue,  that  he  might  be  proved  blameless  to  all 
the  world.  He  accused  his  wife  of  a  fault  so  great  as  tar- 
nished irrecoverably  her  golden  name.  He  accused  her  of 
being  a  false  wife  and  an  unnatural  mother,  under  circum- 
stances of  no  common  delinquency.  But  he  might  be  mis- 
taken ;  he  might  view  his  injuries  with  the  eye  of  passion, 
and  others,  more  disinterested,  might  pronounce  that  she 
was  unfortunate,  but  not  guilty.  By  means  of  the  bill  for 
divorce,  the  truth  would  be  investigated  and  judged  by  sev-. 


FALKNER.  117 

eral  hundred  of  the  best  born  and  best  educated  of  his 
countrymen.  The  pubhcity,  also,  might  induce  discovery. 
It  was  fair  and  just ;  and  though  his  pride  rebelled  against 
becoming  the  tale  of  the  day,  he  saw  no  alternative.  In- 
deed, it  was  reported  to  him  by  some  officious  friend  that 
many  had  observed  that  it  was  strange  that  he  had  not 
sought  this  remedy  before.  Something  of  wonder,  or 
blame,  or  both,  was  attached  to  his  passiveness.  Such 
hints  galled  him  to  the  quick,  and  he  pursued  his  purpose 
with  all  the  obstinacy  and  imperious  haste  peculiar  to  him. 

"  When  every  other  preliminary  had  been  gone  through, 
it  was  deemed  necessary  that  Gerard  should  give  his  evi- 
dence at  the  bar  of  the  House  of  Lords.  Sir  Boyvill  looked 
upon  his  lost  wife  as  a  criminal,  so  steeped  in  deserved  in- 
famy, so  odious,  and  so  justly  condemned,  that  none  could 
hesitate  in  siding  with  him  to  free  him  from  the  bondage  of 
those  laws,  which,  while  she  bore  his  name,  might  be  pro- 
ductive of  incalculable  injury.  His  honour,  too,  was  wound- 
ed. His  honour,  which  he  would  have  sacrificed  his  life  to 
have  preserved  untainted,  he  had  intrusted  to  Alithea,  and 
loved  her  the  more  fervently  that  she  regarded  the  trust 
with  reverence.  She  had  foully  betrayed  it ;  and  must  not 
all  who  respected  the  world's  customs  and  the  law  s  of  so- 
cial life  ;  above  all,  must  not  any  who  loved  him  be  for- 
ward to  cast  her  out  from  any  inheritance  of  good  that  could 
reach  her  through  him  1 

"  Above  all,  must  not  their  son — his  son,  share  his  indigna- 
tion, and  assist  his  revenge?  Gerard  was  but  a  boy;  but 
his  mother's  tenderness,  his  own  quick  nature  and  lastly, 
the  sufferings  he  had  endured  through  her  flight,  had  early 
developed  a  knowledge  of  the  realities  of  hfe,  and  so  keen 
a  sense  of  right  and  justice,  as  made  his  father  regard  him 
as  capable  of  forming  opinions,  and  acting  from  such  mo- 
tives, as  usually  are  little  understood  by  one  so  young.  And 
true  it  was  that  Gerard  fostered  sentiments  independent  of 
any  teaching;  and  cherished  ideas  the  more  obstinately, be- 
cause they  were  confined  to  his  single  breast.  He  under- 
stood the  pity  with  which  his  father  was  regarded — the 
stigma  cast  upon  his  mother — the  suppressed  voice — the 
wink  of  the  eye — the  covert  hint.  He  understood  it  all; 
and,  like  the  poet,  longed  for  a  word,  sharp  as  a  sword,  to 
pierce  the  falsehood  through  and  through. 

"  For  many  months  he  and  his  father  had  seen  little  of 
each  other.  Sir  Boyvill  had  not  a  mind  that  takes  pleasure 
m  watching  the  ingenuous  sallies  of  childhood,  or  the  de- 
velopment of  the  youthful  mind ;  the  idea  of  making  a  friend 
of  his  child,  Avhich  had  been  Alithea's  fond  and  earnest  aim, 
could  never  occur  to  his  self-engrossed  heart.  Since  his 
illness,  Gerard  had  been  weakly,  or  he  would  have  been 
sent  to  school.    As  it  was,  a  tutor  resided  in  the  house. 


118  FALKNER. 

This  person  ^as  written  to  by  Sir  Boy vill's  man  of  busi- 
ness, and  directed  to  break  the  matter  to  his  pupil ;  to  ex- 
plain the  formalities,  to  sooth  and  encourage  any  timidity 
he  might  show,  and  to  incite  him,  if  need  were,  to  a  desire 
to  assist  in  a  measure,  whose  operation  was  to  render  jus- 
tice to  his  father, 

"  The  first  allusion  to  his  mother  made  by  Mr.  Carter 
caused  the  blood  to  rush  from  the  boy's  heart,  aqd  to  die 
crimson  his  cheeks,  his  temples,  his  throat ;  then  he  grew 
deadly  pale,  and,  without  uttering  a  word,  listened  to  his 
preceptor,  till  suddenly  taking  in  the  nature  of  the  task  as- 
signed to  him,  every  limb  shook,  and  he  answered  by  a  simple 
request  to  be  left  alone,  and  he  would  consider.  No  more  ■>' 
was  thought  by  the  unapprehensive  people  about,  than  that 
he  was  shy  of  being  spoken  to  on  the  subject — that  he 
would  make  up  his  mind  in  his  own  way — and  Mr.  Car- 
ter at  once  yielded  to  his  request ;  the  reserve  which  had 
shrouded  him  since  he  lost  his  mother  had  accustomed 
those  about  him  to  habitual  silence.  None — no  one  watch- 
ful, attached,  intelligent  eye  marked  the  struggles  which 
shook  his  delicate  frame,  blanched  his  cheek,  took  the  flesh 
from  his  bones,  and  quickened  his  pulse  into  fever.  None 
mai-ked  him  as  he  lay  in  bed  the  livelong  night,  with  open 
eyes  and  beating  heart  a  prey  to  contending  emotion.  He 
was  passed  carelessly  by  as  he  lay  on  the  dewy  grass  from 
morn  to  evening,  his  soul  torn  by  grief — uttering  his  moth- 
er's name  in  accents  of  despair,  and  shedding  floods  of  tears. 

"  I  said  that  these  signs  of  intense  feeling  were  not  remark- 
ed— and  yet  they  were,  in  a  vulgar  way,  by  the  menials,  who 
said  it  would  be  well  when  the  affair  was  over,  Master  Ne- 
ville took  it  so  to  heart,  and  was  sadly  frightened.  Fright- 
ened !  such  a  coarse  undistinguishing  name  was  given  to  the 
sacred  terror  of  doing  his  still  loved  mother  an  injury,  which 
heaved  his  breast  with  convulsive  sobs  and  filled  his  veins 
with  fire. 

"  The  tliought  of  what  he  was  called  upon  to  do  haunted 
him  day  and  night  with  agony.  He,  her  nursling,  her  idol, 
her  child — he  who  could  not  think  of  her  name  without  tears, 
and  dreamed  often  that  she  kissed  him  in  his  sleep,  and  woke 
to  weep  over  tlie  delusion — he  was  to  accuse  her  before  an 
assembled  multitude — to  give  support  to  the  most  infamous 
falsehoods — to  lend  his  voice  to  stigmatize  her  name :  and 
wherever  she  was,  kept  from  him  by  some  irresistible 
power,  but  innocent  as  an  angel,  and  still  loving  him,  she 
was  to  hear  of  him  as  her  enemy,  and  receive  a  last  wound 
from  his  hand.  Such  appeared  the  task  assigned  to  him  in 
his  eyes,  for  his  blunt-witted  tutor  had  spoken  of  the  justice  ' 
to  be  rendered  his  father,  by  freeing  him  from  his  fugitive 
wife,  without  regarding  the  inner  heart  of  his  pupil,  or  being 


FALKNER.  119 

aware  tliat  his  mother  sat  throned  there,  an  angel  of  hght 
and  goodness,  the  victim  of  ill,  but  doing  none. 

"  Soon  after  Mrs.  Neville's  flight,  the  family  had  aban- 
doned the  seat  in  Cumberland,  and  inhabited  a  house  taken 
near  the  Thames,  in  Buckinghamshire.  Here  Gerard  re- 
sided, while  liis  father  was  in  town  watching  the  progress  of 
the  bill.  At  last  the  day  drew  near  when  Gerard's  presence 
was  required.  The  peers  showed  a  disposition,  either  from 
curiosity  or  a  love  of  justice,  to  sift  the  affair  to  the  utter- 
most, and  the  boy's  testimony  was  declared  absolutely  ne- 
cessary. Mr.  Carter  told  Gerard  that  on  the  following 
morning  they  were  to  proceed  to  London,  in  pursuance  of 
the  circumstances  which  he  had  explained  to  him  a  few  days 
before. 

"  '  Is  it  then  true,'  said  the  boy,  '  that  I  am  to  be  called 
upon  to  give  evidence,  as  you  call  it,  against  my  mother  1' 

"  '  You  are  called  upon  by  every  feeling  of  duty,'  replied 
the  sapient  preceptor,  '  to  speak  the  truth  to  those  whose 
decision  will  render  justice  to  your  father.  If  the  truth  in- 
jure Mrs.  Neville,  that  is  her  affair.' 

"  Again  Gerard's  cheeks  burned  with  blushes,  and  his  eyes, 
dimmed  as  they  were  with  tears,  flashed  fire.  '  In  that 
case,'  he  said, '  I  beg  to  see  my  father.' 

'"You  will  see  him  when  in  town,'  replied  ^Ir.  Carter. 
'  Come,  Neville,  you  must  not  take  the  matter  in  this  girl- 
ish style ;  show  yourself  a  man.  Your  mother  is  un- 
worthy— ' 

" '  If  you  please,  sir,'  said  Gerard,  half  choked,  yet  re- 
straining himself,  '  I  will  speak  to  my  father  ;  I  do  not  like 
any  one  else  to  talk  to  me  about  these  things.' 

"  '  As  you  please,  sir,'  said  Mr.  Carter,  much  offended. 

"  No  more  was  said — it  was  evening.  The  next  morning 
they  set  out  for  London.  The  poor  boy  had  lain  awake  the 
whole  night ;  but  no  one  knew  or  cared  for  his  painful 
vigils. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  On  the  following  day  the  journey  was  performed  ;  and 
it  had  been  arranged  that  Gerard  should  rest  on  the  subse- 
quent one ;  the  third  being  fixed  for  his  attendance  in  the 
House  of  Lords.  Sir  Boyvill  had  been  informed  how  sul- 
lenly (that  was  the  word  they  used)  the  boy  had  received 
the  information  conveyed  him  by  his  tutor.  He  would 
rather  have  been  excused  saying  a  word  himself  to  his  son 
on  the  subject ;  but  this  account,  and  the  boy's  request  to 


120  FALKNER. 

see  him,  forced  him  to  change  his  purpose.  He  did  not  ex- 
pect opposition ;  but  he  wished  to  give  a  riglit  turn  to  Ge- 
rard's expressions.  The  sort  of  cold  distance  that  separa- 
tion and  variance  of  feeUng  produced,  rendered  their  inter- 
course little  like  the  tender  interchange  of  parental  and 
filial  love. 

" '  Gerard,  my  boy,'  Sir  Boyvill  began,  '  Ave  are  both 
sufferers;  and  you,  like  me,  are  not  of  a  race  tamely  to 
endure  injury.  I  would  willingly  have  risked  my  life  to  re- 
venge the  ruin  brought  on  us  ;  so  I  believe  would  you,  child 
as  you  are ;  but  the  skulking  villain  is  safe  from  my  arm. 
The  laws  of  his  country  cannot  even  pursue  him ;  yet,  what 
reparation  is  left,  I  must  endeavour  to  get.' 

"  Sir  Boyvill  showed  tact  in  thus  bringing  forward  only 
that  party,  whose  act  none  could  do  other  than  reprobate, 
and  who  was  the  object  of  Gerard's  liveliest  hatred.  His 
face  lightened  up  with  something  of  pleasure — his  eye 
flashed  fire  ;  to  prove  to  the  world  the  guilt  and  violence  of 
the  wretch  who  had  torn  his  mother  from  him  was  indeed 
a  task  of  duty  and  justice.  A  little  more  forbearance  on  his 
father's  part  had  wound  him  easily  to  his  -will :  but  the  pol- 
icy Sir  Bo3rvill  displayed  was  involuntary,  and  his  next 
words  overturned  all.  '  Your  miserable  mother,'  he  con- 
tinued, 'must  bear  her  share  of  infamy;  and  if  she  be  not 
wholly  hardened,  it  will  prove  a  sufficient  punishment. 
When  the  events  of  to-morrow  reach  her,  she  will  begin  to 
taste  of  the  bitter  cup  slie  has  dealt  out  so  largely  to  others. 
It  were  folly  to  pretend  to  regret  that — I  own  that  I  re- 
joice.' 

"  Every  idea  now  suffered  revulsion,  and  the  stream  of 
feeling  flowed  again  in  its  old  channels.  What  right  had 
his  father  to  speak  thus  of  the  beloved  and  honoured  parent 
he  had  so  cruelly  lost  ]  His  blood  boiled  within  him,  and, 
despite  childish  fear  and  reverence,  he  said,  '  If  my  mother 
will  grieve  or  be  injured  by  my  appearing  to-morrow,  I  will 
not  go — I  cannot.' 

"  '  You  are  a  fool  to  speak  thus,'  said  his  father,  '  a  galless 
■animal,  without  sense  of  pride  or  duty.  Come,  sir,  no  more 
of  this.  You  owe  me  obedience,  and  you  must  pay  it  on 
this  occasion.  You  are  only  bid  speak  the  truth,  and  that 
you  must  speak.  I  had  thought,  notwithstanding  your 
'youth,  higher  and  more  generous  motives  might  be  urged 
— a  father's  honour  vindicated — a  mother's  vileness  pun- 
ished.' 

" '  My  mother  is  not  vile  !'  cried  Gerard,  and  there  stop- 
ped ;  for  a  thousand  things  restrain  a  child's  tongue ;  inex- 
perience, reverence,  ignorance  of  the  eflfect  his  words  may 
produce,  terror  at  the  mightiness  of  the  power  with  which 
he  has  to  contend.  After  a  pause,  he  muttered,  '  I  honour 
my  mother ;  I  will  tell  the  whole  world  that  she  deserves 
honour.' 


FALKNER.  131 

"  '  Now,  Gerard,  on  my  soul,'  cried  Sir  Boyvill,  roused  to 
anger,  as  parents  too  easily  are  against  their  offspring  when 
they  show  any  will  of  their  own,  while  they  expect  to  move 
them  like  puppets ;  '  on  my  soul,  my  fine  fellow,  I  could 
find  it  in  my  heart  to  knock  you  down.  Enough  of  this  ;  I 
don't  want  to  terrify  you :  be  a  good  boy  to-morrow,  and  I 
will  forgive  all.' 

"  '  Forgive  me  now,  father,'  cried  the  youth,  bursting  into 
tears ;  '  forgive  me  and  spare  me !  I  cannot  obey  you ;  I 
cannot  do  anytliiug  that  will  grieve  my  mother ;  she  loved 
me  so  much — I  am  sure  she  loves  me  still — that  I  cannot 
do  her  a  harm.     I  will  not  go  to-morrow.' 

"  '  This  is  most  extraordinary,'  said  Sir  Boyvill,  control- 
ling, as  well  as  he  could,  the  rage  swelling  within  him. 
'And  are  you  such  an  idiot  as  not  to  know  that  your 
wretched  mother  has  forfeited  all  claim  to  your  affection  ? 
and  am  I  of  so  little  worth  in  your  eyes,  I,  your  father,  who 
have  a  right  to  your  obedience  from  the  justice  of  my 
cause,  not  to  speak  of  parental  authority,  am  I  nothing  T  to 
receive  no  duty,  expect  no  service  ]  I  was,  indeed,  mista- 
ken ;  I  thought  you  were  older  than  your  years,  and  had 
that  touch  of  gentlemanly  pride  about  you  that  would  have 
made  you  eager  to  avenge  my  injuries,  to  stand  by  me  as  a 
friend  and  ally,  compensating,  as  well  as  you  could,  for  the 
wrongs  done  me  by  your  mother.  I  thought  I  had  a  son  in 
whose  veins  my  own  blood  flowed,  who  would  be  ready  to 
prove  his  true  birth  by  siding  with  me.  Are  you  stone,  or 
a  baseborn  thing,  that  you  cannot  even  conceive  what  thing 
honour  is  V 

"  Gerard  listened,  he  wept ;  the  tears  poured  in  torrents 
from  his  eyes ;  but,  as  his  father  continued,  and  heaped 
many  an  opprobrious  epithet  on  him,  a  proud  and  sullen 
spirit  was  indeed  awakened  ;  he  longed  to  say — '  Abuse  me, 
strike  me,  but  I  will  not  yield !'  Yet  he  did  not  speak ;  he 
dried  his  eyes,  and  stood  in  silence  before  his  parent,  his 
face  darkening,  and  something  ferocious  gleaming  in  eyes 
hitherto  so  soft  and  sorrowing.  Sir  Boyvill  saw  that  he 
was  far  from  making  the  impression  he  desired;  but  he 
wished  to  avoid  reiterated  refusals  to  obey,  and  he  summed 
up  at  last  with  vague  but  violent  threats  of  what  would  en- 
sue— exile  from  his  home,  penury,  nay,  starvation,  the  ab- 
horrence of  the  world,  his  own  malediction ;  and,  after  hav- 
ing worked  himself  up  into  a  towering  rage,  and  real  detes- 
tation of  the  shivering,  feeble,  yet  determined  child  before 
him,  he  left  him  to  consider  and  to  be  vanquished. 

"  Far  other  thoughts  occupied  Gerard.  '  I  had  thought,' 
he  has  told  me,  '  once  or  twice  to  throw  myself  into  his 
arms,  and  pray  for  mercy ;  to  kneel  at  his  feet  and  implore 
him  to  spare  me  ;  one  kind  word  had  made  the  struggle  in- 
tolerable, but  no  kind  word  did  he  say  ;  and  while  he  stormed, 
11  F 


122  FALKNE.R. 

it  seemed  to  me  as  if  my  dear  mother  were  singing  as  she 
was  used,  while  I  gathered  flowers  and  played  beside  her  in 
the  park,  and  I  thought  of  her,  not  of  him ;  the  words,  "  kick 
me  out  of  doors,"  suggested  but  the  idea,  "  I  shall  be  free, 
and  I  will  find  my  mother."  I  feel  intensely  now;  but 
surely  a  boy's  feelings  are  far  wilder,  far  more  vehement 
than  a  man's ;  for  I  cannot  now,  violent  as  you  think  me, 
call  up  one  sensation  so  whirlwind-like  as  those  that  pos- 
sessed me  while  my  father  spoke  !' 

"  Thus  has  Gerard  described  his  emotions  ;  his  father  or- 
dered him  to  quit  the  room,  and  he  went  to  brood  upon  the 
fate  impending  over  him.  On  the  morrow  early  he  was  bid 
prepare  to  attend  the  House  of  Lords.  His  father  did  not 
appear ;  he  thought  that  the  boy  was  terrified,  and  would 
make  no  further  resistance.  Gerard,  indeed,  obeyed  in  si- 
lence. He  disdained  to  argue  with  strangers  and  hirelings ; 
he  had  an  idea  that  if  he  openly  rebelled  he  might  be  car- 
ried by  force,  and  his  proud  heart  swelled  at  the  idea  of 
compulsion.  He  got  into  the  carriage,  and,  as  he  went, 
Mr.  Carter,  who  was  with  him,  thought  it  advisable  to  ex- 
plain the  forms,  and  give  some  instructions.  Gerard  lis- 
tened with  composure,  nay,  asked  a  question  or  two  con- 
cerning the  preliminaries  ;  he  was  told  of  the  oath  that 
would  be  administered;  and  how  the  words  he  spoke  after 
taking  that  oath  would  be  implicitly  believed,  and  that  he 
must  be  careful  to  say  nothing  that  was  not  strictly  true. 
The  colour,  not  an  indignant  blush,  but  a  suffusion  as  of 
pleasure,  mantled  over  his  cheeks  as  this  was  explained. 

"  They  arrived  ;  they  were  conducted  into  some  outer 
room  to  await  the  call  of  the  peers.  What  tortures  the  boy 
felt  as  strangers  came  up,  some  to  speak,  and  others  to 
gaze ;  all  of  indignation,  resolution,  grief,  and  more  than 
manhood's  struggles  that  tore  his  bosom  during  the  annoy- 
ing delays  that  always  protract  this  sort  of  scenes,  none 
cared  to  scan.  He  was  there  um-esisting,  apparently  com- 
posed ;  if  now  his  cheek  flushed,  and  now  his  hps  withered 
into  paleness ;  if  now  the  sense  of  suffocation  rose  in  his 
throat,  and  now  tears  rushed  into  his  eyes,  as  the  image  of 
his  sweet  mother  passed  across  his  memoiy,  none  regarded, 
none  cared.  When  I  have  thought  of  the  spasms  and  throes 
which  his  tender  and  high  wrought  soul  endured  during  this 
interval,  I  often  wonder  his  heart-strings  did  not  crack,  or 
his  reason  for  ever  unsettle  ;  as  it  is,  he  has  not  yet  escaped 
the  influence  of  that  hour ;  it  shadows  his  life  with  eclipse, 
it  comes  whispering  agony  to  him,  when  otherwise  he  might 
forget.  Some  author  has  described  the  effect  of  misfortune 
on  the  virtuous  as  the  crushing  of  perfumes,  so  to  force 
them  to  give  forth  tlieir  fragrance.  Gerard  is  all  nobleness, 
all  virtue,  all  tenderness  ;  do  we  owe  any  part  of  his  excel- 
lence to  this  hour  of  anguish  1     If  so,  1  may  be  consoled ; 


FALKNER.  123 

but  I  can  never  think  of  it  without  pain.  He  says  himself, 
'  Yes !  without  these  sharp  goadings,  I  had  not  devoted  my 
whole  life  to  clearing  my  mother's  fame.'  Is  this  devotion 
a  good  ?     As  yet  no  apparent  benefit  has  spnmg  from  it. 

"  At  length  he  was  addressed :  '  Young  gentleman,  are 
you  ready  !'  and  he  was  led  into  that  stately  chamber — fit 
for  solemn  and  high  debate — thronged  with  the  judges  of 
his  mother's  cause.  There  was  a  dimness  in  his  eye — a 
tumult  in  his  heart  that  confused  him,  while  on  his  appear- 
ance there  was  first  a  murmur,  then  a  general  hush.  Each 
regarded  him  with  compassion  as  they  discerned  the  marks 
of  suflering  in  his  countenance.  A  few  moments  passed 
before  he  was  addressed;  and  when  it  was  supposed  that 
he  had  had  time  to  collect  himself,  the  proper  officer  ad- 
ministered the  oath,  and  then  the  barrister  asked  him  some 
slight  questions,  not  to  startle,  but  to  lead  back  his  memory 
by  insensible  degrees  to  the  necessary  Tacts.  The  boy 
looked  at  him  with  scorn — he  tried  to  be  calm,  to  elevate 
his  voice  ;  twice  it  faltered — the  third  time  he  spoke  slowly 
but  distinctly :  '  I  have  sworn  to  speak  the  truth,  and  I  am 
to  be  believed.     My  mother  is  innocent.' 

" '  But  this  is  not  the  point,  young  gentleman,'  interrupted 
his  interrogator;  'I  only  asked  if  you  remembered  your 
father's  house  in  Cumberland.' 

"  The  boy  replied  more  loudly,  but  with  broken  accents 
— '  I  have  said  all  I  mean  to  say — you  may  murder  me,  but 
I  will  say  no  more — how  dare  you  entice  me  into  injuring 
my  mother?' 

"  At  the  word,  uncontrollable  tears  burst  forth,  pouring 
in  torrents  down  his  burning  cheeks.  He  told  me  that  he 
well  remembers  the  feeling  that  rose  to  his  tongue,  instiga- 
ting him  to  cry  shame  on  all  present — but  his  voice  failed, 
his  purpose  was  too  mighty  for  his  young  heart  ;  he  sobbed 
and  wept ;  the  more  he  tried  to  control  the  impulse,  the 
more  hysterical  the  fit  grew — he  was  taken  from  the  bar, 
and  the  peers,  moved  by  his  distress,  came  to  a  resolve  that 
they  would  dispense  with  his  attendance,  and  be  satisfied 
by  hearing  his  account  of  the  transaction  from  those  per- 
sons to  whom  he  made  it  at  the  period  when  it  occurred. 
I  will  now  mention,  that  the  result  of  this  judicial  inquiry 
"was,  a  decree  of  divorce  in  Sir  Boyvill's  favour. 

"  Gerard,  removed  from  the  bar,  and  carried  home,  re- 
covered his  composure — but  he  was  silent — revolving  the 
consequences  which  he  expected  would  ensue  from  dis- 
obedience. His  father  had  menaced  to  turn  him  out  of 
doors,  and  he  did  not  doubt  but  that  this  threat  would  be 
put  into  execution,  so  that  he  was  somewhat  surprised  tha* 
he  was  taken  home  at  all ;  perhaps  they  meant  to  send  him 
to  a  place  of  exile  of  their  own  choosing,  perhaps  to  make 
the  expulsion  public  and  ignominious.  The  powers  of 
F2 


124  FALKNER. 

grown-up  people  appear  so  illimitable  in  a  child's  eyes,  who 
have  no  data  whereby  to  discover  the  probable  from  the^ 
improbable.  At  length  the  fear  of  confinement  became 
paramount ;  he  revolted  from  it ;  his  notion  was  to  go  and 
seek  his  mother — and  his  mind  was  quickly  made  up  to 
forestall  their  violence,  and  to  run  away. 

"  He  was  ordered  to  confine  himself  to  his  own  room — 
his  food  was  brought  to  him — this  looked  like  the  confirm- 
ation of  his  fears.  His  heart  swelled  high :  '  They  think 
to  treat  me  like  a  child,  but  1  will  show  myself  independent 
— wherever  my  mother  is,  she  is  better  than  they  all — if 
she  is  imprisoned,  I  will  free  her,  cr  I  will  remain  with  her; 
how  glad  she  will  be  to  see  me — how  happy  shall  we  be 
again  together!  My  father  may  have  all  the  rest  of  the 
world  to  himself,  when  I  am  with  my  mother,  in  a  cavern  or 
a  dungeon,  I  care  not  where.' 

"  Night  came  on — he  went  to   bed — he  even  slept,  and 
awoke  terrified  to  think  that  the  opportune  hour  might  be 
overpassed — daylight  was  dawning  faintly  in  the  east;  the 
clocks  of  London  struck  four — he  was  still  in  time — every 
one  in  the  house  slept ;  he  rose  and  dressed — he  had  nearly 
ten  guineas  of  his  own,  this  was  all  his  possession,  he  had 
counted  them  the  night  before— he  opened  the  door  of  his 
chamber — daylight   was    struggling  with  darkness,  and  aU 
was  very  still — -he  stepped  out,  he  descended  the  stairs,  he 
got  into  the  hall — every   accustomed  object  seemed  new 
and  strange  at  that  early  hour,  and  he  looked  with  some 
dismay  at  the  bars  and  bolts  of  the  house  door — he  feared 
making  a  noise,  and  rousing  some  servant,  still  the  thing 
must  be  attempted ;  slowly  and  cautiously  he  pushed  back 
the  bolts,  he  lifted  up  the  chain — it  fell  from  his  hands  with 
terrific  clatter  on  the  stone  pavement — his  heart  was  in  his 
mouth — he  did  not  fear  punishment,  but  he  feared  ill  suc- 
cess ;  he  listened  as  well  as  liis  throbbing  pulses  permitted 
— all  was  still — the   key   of  the  door  was  in  the  lock,  it 
turned  easily  at  his  toucli,  and  in  another  moment  the  door 
was  open ;   the  fresh  air  blew  upon  his  cheeks — the  de- 
serted street  was  before  him.     He  closed  the  door  after 
him,  and  with  a  sort  of  extra  caution  locked  it  on  the  out- 
side, and  then  took  to  his  heels,  throwing  the  key  down  a 
neighbouring  street.     When  out  of  sight  of  his  home,  he 
walked  more  slowly,  and  began  to  think  seriously  of  the 
course  to  pursue.     To  find  his  mother ! — all  the  world  had 
been  trying  to  find  her,  and  had  not  succeeded — but  he  be- 
lieved that  by  some  means  she  would  hear  of  his  escape 
and  come  to  him — but  whither  go  in  the  first  instance  1 — 
his  heart  replied,  to  Cumberland,  to  Dromore — there  he  had 
lived  with  his  mother — there  had  he  lost  her — he  felt  as- 
sured that  in  its  neighbourhood  he  should  again  be  restored 
to  her. 


FALKNER.  1S5 

"  Travelling  had  given  him  some  idea  of  distance,  and  of 
the  modes  of  getting  from  one  place  to  another — he  felt 
that  it  would  be  a  task  of  too  great  difficulty  to  attempt 
walking  across  England — he  had  no  carriage,  he  knew  of 
no  ship  to  take  him,  some  conveyance  he  must  get,  so  he 
applied  to  a  hackney  coach.  It  was  standing  solitary  in 
the  middle  of  the  street,  the  driver  asleep  on  the  steps — the 
skeleton  horses  hanging  down  their  heads — with  the  pecu- 
liarly disconsolate  look  these  poor  hacked  animals  have. 
Gerard,  as  the  son  of  a  wealthy  man,  was  accustomed  to 
consider  that  he  had  a  right  to  command  those  whom  he 
could  pay — yet  fear  of  discovery  and  being  sent  back  to  his 
father  filled  him  with  unusual  fears ;  he  looked  at  the 
horses  and  the  man — he  advanced  nearer,  but  he  was  afraid 
to  take  the  decisive  step,  till  the  driver  awaking,  started  up 
and  shook  himself,  stared  at  the  boy,  and  seemg  him  well 
dressed — and  he  looked,  too,  older  than  his  years,  from 
being  tall — he  asked,  '  Do  you  want  me,  sir  V 

"  '  Yes,'  said  Gerard,  '  I  want  you  to  drive  me.' 

"  '  Get  in,  then.     Where  are  you  going  ?' 

"  '  I  am  going  a  long  way — to  Dromore,  that  is  in  Cumber- 
land— ' 

"  The  boy  hesitated ;  it  struck  him  that  those  miserable 
horses  could  not  carry  him  far.  'Then  you  want  me  to 
take  you  to  the  stage,'  said  the  man.  '  It  goes  from  Picca^ 
dilly — at  five — we  have  no  time  to  lose.' 

"  Gerard  got  in — on  they  jumbled — and  arriving  at  the 
coach-office,  saw  some  half  dozen  stages  ready  to  start. 
The  name  of  Liverpool  on  one  struck  the  boy,  by  the  famil- 
iar name.  If  he  could  get  to  Liverpool,  it  were  easy  after- 
ward even  to  walk  to  Dromore ;  so  getting  out  of  the 
hackney  coach,  he  Avent  up  to  the  coachman,  who  was 
mounting  his  box,  and  asked,  '  Will  you  take  me  to  Liver- 
pool V 

" '  Yes,  my  fine  fellow,  if  you  can  pay  the  fare.' 

"  '  How  much  is  it  V  drawing  out  his  purse. 

"  '  Inside  or  outside  V 

"  From  the  moment  he  had  addressed  these  men,  and 
they  began  to  talk  of  money,  Gerard,  calling  to  mind  the 
vast  disbursements  of  gold  coin  he  had  seen  made  by  his 
father  and  the  courier  on  their  travels,  began  to  fear  that  his 
little  stock  would  ill  suffice  to  carry  him  so  far ;  and  the 
first  suggestion  of  prudence  the  little  fellow  ever  experienced 
made  him  now  answer.  '  Whichever  costs  least.' 

"  •  Outside,  then.' 

"  '  Oh,  I  have  that — I  can  pay  you.' 

"  '  Jump  up,  then,  my  lad — lend  me  your  hand — here,  by 
me— that's  right— all's  well,  you're  just  in  the  nick,  we  are 
off  directly.' 
11* 


1 26  PALKNER. 

"  He  cracked  his  whip,  and  away  they  flew ;  and  as  they 
went,  Gerard  felt  free,  and  going  to  his  mother. 

"  Such,  in  these  civiHzed  times,  are  the  facilities  offered  to 
the  execution  of  our  wildest  wishes  !  the  consequences,  the 
moral  consequences,  are  still  the  same,  still  require  the 
same  exertions  to  overcome  them ;  but  we  have  no  longer 
to  fight  with  physical  impediments.  If  Gerard  had  begun  his 
expedition  from  any  other  town,  curiosity  had  perhaps  been 
excited ;  but  in  the  vast,  busy  metropolis  each  one  takes 
care  of  himself,  and  few  scrutinize  the  motives  or  means  of 
others.  Perched  up  on  the  coach-box,  Gerard  had  a  few 
questions  to  answer — Was  he  going  home  1  did  he  live  in 
Liverpool  ?  but  the  name  of  Dromore  was  a  sufficing  answer. 
The  coachman  had  never  heard  of  such  a  place  ;  but  it  was 
a  gentleman's  seat,  and  it  was  Gerard's  home,  and  that  was 
enough. 

"  Some  day  you  must  ask  Gerard  to  relate  to  you  his  ad- 
ventures during  this  journey.  They  will  come  warmly  and 
vividly  from  him ;  while  mine,  as  a  mere  reflex,  must  be 
tame.  It  is  his  mind  I  would  describe  ;  and  I  will  not  pause 
to  narrate  the  tantalizing  cross-questioning  that  he  under- 
went from  a  Scotchman — nor  the  heart-heavings  with  which 
he  heard  allusions  made  to  the  divorce  case  before  the  lords. 
A  newspaper  describing  his  own  conduct  was  in  the  hands 
of  one  of  the  passengers  ;  he  heard  his  mother  lightly  al- 
luded to.  He  would  have  leaped  from  the  coach ;  but  that 
was  to  give  up  all.  He  pressed  his  hands  to  his  ears — he 
scowled  on  those  around — his  heart  was  on  fire.  Yet  he 
had  one  consolation.  He  was  free.  He  was  going  to  her 
— he  resolved  never  to  mingle  with  his  fellow-creatures 
more.  Buried  in  some  rural  retreat  Avith  his  mother,  it 
mattered  little  what  the  vulgar  and  the  indifi'erent  said  about 
either. 

"  Some  qualms  did  assail  him.  Should  he  find  his  dear 
mother  1  Where  was  she  ]  his  childish  imagination  refused 
to  paint  her  distant  from  Dromore — his  own  removal  from 
that  mansion  so  soon  after  losing  her,  associated  her  indeli- 
bly with  the  mountains,  the  ravines,  the  brawling  streams, 
and  clustering  woods  of  his  natal  county.  She  must  be 
there.  He  would  drive  away  the  man  of  violence  who  took 
her  from  him,  and  they  would  be  happy  together. 

"  A  day  and  a  night  brought  liim  to  Liverpool,  and  the 
coachman,  hearing  whither  he  wished  to  go,  deposited  him  in 
the  stage  for  Lancaster  on  his  arrival.  He  went  inside  this 
time,  and  slept  all  the  way.  At  Lancaster  he  was  recognised 
by  several  persons,  and  they  wondered  to  see  him  alone. 
He  was  annoyed  at  their  recognition  and  questionings ;  and, 
though  it  was  night  when  he  arrived,  instantly  set  ofT  to 
walk  to  Dromore. 
"  For  two  months  from  this  time  he  lived  wandering  from 


FALKNER.  127 

cottage  to  cottage,  seeking  his  mother.  The  journey  from 
Lancaster  to  Dromore  he  performed  as  speedily  as  he  well 
could.  He  did  not  enter  the  house — that  would  be  deliver- 
ing himself  up  as  a  prisoner.  By  night  he  clambered  the 
park  railings,  and  entered  like  a  thief  the  demesnes  where 
he  had  spent  his  childhood.  Each  path  was  known  to  him, 
and  almost  every  tree.  Here  he  sat  with  his  mother;  there 
they  found  the  first  violet  of  spring.  His  pilgrimage  was 
achieved ;  but  where  was  she  1  His  heart  beat  as  he  reached 
the  little  gate  whence  they  had  issued  on  that  fatal  night. 
All  the  grounds  bore  marks  of  neglect  and  the  master's  ab- 
sence ;  and  the  lock  of  this  gate  was  spoiled ;  a  sort  of 
rough  bolt  had  been  substituted.  Gerard  pushed  it  back. 
The  rank  grass  had  gathered  thick  on  the  threshold ;  but  it 
was  the  same  spot.     How  well  he  remembered  it ! 

"  Two  years  only  had  since  passed,  he  was  still  a  child ; 
yet  to  his  own  fancy  how  much  taller,  how  much  more  of 
a  man  he  had  become !  Besides,  he  now  fancied  himself 
master  of  his  own  actions — he  had  escaped  from  his  father; 
and  he — who  had  threatened  to  turn  him  out  of  doors — 
would  not  seek  to  possess  himself  of  him  again.  He  be- 
longed to  no  one — he  was  cared  for  by  no  one — by  none  but 
her  whom  he  sought  with  firm,  yet  anxious  expectation. 
There  he  had  seen  her  last — he  stepped  forward ;  he  fol- 
lowed the  course  of  the  lane — he  came  to  where  the  road 
crossed  it — where  the  carriage  drove  up,  where  she  had 
been  torn  from  him. 

"  It  was  daybreak — a  June  morning ;  all  was  golden  and 
still — a  few  birds  twittered,  but  the  breeze  was  hushed,  and 
he  looked  out  on  the  extent  of  country  commanded  from  the 
spot  where  he  stood,  and  saw  only  nature,  the  rugged  hills, 
the  green  corn-fields',  the  flowery  meads,  and  the  umbrageous 
trees  in  deep  repose.  How  different  from  the  wild,  tem- 
pestuous night  when  she  whom  he  sought  was  torn  away  ; 
he  could  then  see  only  a  few  yards  before  him,  now  he 
could  mark  the  devious  windings  of  the  road,  and,  afar  off, 
distinguish  the  hazy  line  of  the  ocean.  He  sat  down  to  re- 
flect— what  was  he  to  do  ]  in  what  nook  of  the  wide  ex- 
panse was  his  mother  hid  ?  that  some  portion  of  the  land- 
scape he  viewed  harboured  her,  was  his  fixed  belief;  a  be- 
lief founded  in  inexperience  and  fancy,  but  not  the  less 
deep-rooted.  He  meditated  for  some  time,  and  then  walked 
forward — he  remembered  when  he  ran  panting  and  scream- 
ing along  that  road  ;  he  was  a  mere  child  then,  and  what  was 
he  now  ?  a  boy  of  eleven  ;  yet  he  looked  back  with  disdain 
to  the  endeavours  of  two  years  before. 

"  He  walked  along  in  the  same  direction  that  he  had  at 
that  time  pursued,  and  soon  found  that  he  reached  the  turn- 
pike-road to  Lancaster.  He  turned  off,  and  went  by  the 
cross-road  that  leads  to  the  wild  and  dreary  plains  that  form 


128  FALKNER. 

the  coast.  The  inner  range  of  picturesque  hills,  on  the  de- 
clivity of  which  Dromore  is  situated,  is  not  more  than  five 
miles  from  the  sea ;  but  the  shore  itself  is  singularly  blank 
and  uninteresting,  varied  only  by  sand-hills  throv^^n  up  to  the 
height  of  thirty  or  forty  feet,  intersected  by  rivers,  which  at 
low  water  are  fordable  even  on  foot ;  but  which,  when  the 
tide  is  up,  are  dangerous  to  those  who  do  not  know  the  right 
track,  from  the  holes  and  ruts  which  render  the  bed  of  the 
river  uneven.  In  winter,  indeed,  at  the  period  of  spring 
tides,  or  in  stormy  weather,  with  a  west  wind  which  drives 
the  ocean  towards  the  shore,  the  passage  is  often  exceed- 
ingly dangerous,  and,  except  under  the  direction  of  an  ex- 
perienced guide,  fatal  accidents  occur. 

"  Gerard  reached  the  borders  of  the  ocean  near  one  of 
these  streams  ;  behind  him  rose  his  native  mountains,  range 
above  range,  divided  by  tremendous  gulfs,  varied  by  the 
shadows  of  the  clouds,  and  the  gleams  of  sunlight ;  close  to 
him  was  the  waste  seashore  ;  the  ebbing  tide  gave  a  dreary 
sluggish  appearance  to  the  ocean,  and  the  river — a  shallow, 
rapid  stream — emptied  its  slender  pittance  of  mountain  wa- 
ter noiselessly  into  the  lazy  deep.  It  was  a  scene  of  sin- 
gular desolation.  On  the  other  side  of  the  river,  not  far 
from  the  mouth,  was  a  rude  hut,  unroofed,  and  fallen  to  de- 
cay— erected,  perhaps,  as  the  abode  of  a  guide  ;  near  it  grew 
a  stunted  tree,  withered,  moss-covered,  spectre-like— -the 
sand-hills  lay  scattered  around — the  seagull  screamed  above, 
and  skimmed  over  the  waste.  Gerard  sat  down  and  wept 
— motherless — escaped  from  his  angry  father ;  even  to  his 
young  imagination,  his  fate  seemed  as  drear  and  gloomy  as 
the  scene  around. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"  I  DO  not  know  why  I  have  dwelt  on  these  circumstances 
so  long.  Let  me  hasten  to  finish.  For  two  months  Ge- 
rard wandered  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Dromore.  If  he  saw 
a  lone  cottage,  imbowered  in  trees,  hidden  in  some  green 
recess  of  the  hills,  sequestered  and  peaceful,  he  thought, 
Perhaps  my  mother  is  there !  and  he  clambered  towards  it, 
finding  it  at  last,  probably,  a  mere  shepherd's  hut,  poverty- 
stricken,  and  tenanted  by  a  noisy  family.  His  money  was 
exhausted — he  made  a  journey  to  Lancaster  to  sell  his 
watch,  and  then  returned  to  Cumberland — his  clothes,  his 
shoes  were  worn  out — often  he  slept  in  the  open  air — ewes' 
milk  cheese  and  black  bread  were  his  fare — his  hope  was 
to  find  his  mother — his  fear  to  fall  again  into  his  father's 


FALKNER.  129 

hands.  But  as  the  first  sentiment  failed,  his  friendless  con- 
dition grew  more  sad ;  he  began  to  feel  that  he  was  indeed 
a  feeble,  helpless  boy — abandoned  by  all — he  thought  nothing 
was  left  for  him  but  to  lie  down  and  die. 

"  Meanwhile  he  was  noticed,  and  at  last  recognised,  by 
some  of  the  tenants ;  and  information  reached  his  father  of 
where  he  was.  Unfortunately,  the  circumstance  of  his  dis- 
appearance became  public.  It  was  put  into  the  newspapers 
as  a  mysterious  occurrence ;  and  the  proud  Sir  Boy  vill 
found  himself  not  only  pitied  on  account  of  his  wife's  con- 
duct, but  suspected  of  cruelty  towards  his  only  child.  At 
first  he  was  himself  frightened  and  miserable  ;  but  when  he 
heard  where  Gerard  was,  and  that  he  could  be  recovered  at 
any  time,  these  softer  feelings  were  replaced  by  fury.  He 
sent  the  tutor  to  possess  himself  of  his  son's  person.  He 
was  seized  with  the  help  of  a  constable ;  treated  more  like 
a  criminal  than  an  unfortunate,  erring  child ;  carried  back 
to  Buckinghamshire ;  shut  up  in  a  barricadoed  room ;  de- 
barred from  air  and  exercise  ;  lectured ;  menaced  ;  treated 
with  indignity.  The  boy,  hitherto  accustomed  to  more  than 
usual  indulgence  and  freedom,  was  at  first  astonished,  and 
then  wildly  indignant  at  the  treatment  he  suffered.  He  was 
told  that  he  should  not  be  set  free  till  he  submitted.  He 
believed  that  to  mean,  luitil  he  could  give  testimony  against 
his  mother.  He  resolved  rather  to  die.  Several  times  he 
endeavoured  to  escape,  and  was  brought  back  and  treated 
with  fresh  barbarity — his  hands  bound,  and  stripes  inflicted 
by  menials  ;  till,  driven  to  despair,  he  at  one  time  determined 
to  starve  himself,  and  at  another  tried  to  bribe  a  servant 
to  bring  him  poison.  The  trusting  piety  inculcated  by  his 
gentle  mother  was  destroyed  by  the  ill-judged  cruelty  of  his 
father  and  his  doltish  substitute.  It  is  painful  to  dwell  on 
such  circumstances ;  to  think  of  a  sensitive,  helpless  child 
treated  with  the  brutality  exercised  towards  a  galley-slave. 
Under  this  restraint,  Gerard  grew  such  as  you  saw  him  at 
Baden — sullen,  ferocious,  plunged  in  melancholy,  delivered 
up  to  despair. 

"  It  was  some  time  before, he  discovered  that  the  submis- 
sion demanded  of  him  was  not  to  run  away  again.  On 
learning  this,  he  wrote  to  his  father.  He  spoke  with  horror 
of  the  personal  indignities  he  had  endured ;  of  his  imprison- 
ment ;  of  the  conduct  of  Mr.  Carter.  He  did  not  mean  it  as 
such,  but  his  letter  grew  into  an  affecting,  irresistible  ap- 
peal that  even  moved  Sir  Boyvill.  His  stupid  pride  pre- 
vented him  from  showing  the  regret  he  felt.  He  still  used 
the  language  of  reproof  and  conditional  pardon  ;  but  the  tu- 
tor was  dismissed,  and  Gerard  restored  to  liberty.  Had  his 
father  been  generous  or  just  enough  to  show  his  regret,  he 
might  probably  have  obliterated  the  effects  of  his  harshness ; 
as  it  was,  Gerard  gave  no  thanks  for  a  boon  which  saved 
F3 


130  FALKNER. 

his  life,  but  restored  him  to  none  of  its  social  blessings.  He- 
was  still  friendless — still  orphaned  in  his  affections — still 
the  memory  of  intolerable  tyranny,  the  recurrence  of  which 
was  threatened  if  he  made  an  ill  use  of  the  freedom  accord- 
ed him,  clung  like  the  shirt  of  Nessus — and  his  noble,  ardent 
nat!ire  was  lacerated  by  the  intolerable  recollection  of  sla- 
vish terrors. 

"  You  saw  him  at  Baden,  and  it  was  at  Baden  that  I  also 
first  knew  him.  You  had  left  the  baths  when  my  mother 
and  I  arrived.  We  became  acquainted  with  Sir  Boyvill. 
He  was  still  handsome — he  was  rich — and  those  qualities 
of  mind  which  ill  agreed  with  Alithea's  finer  nature  did  not 
displease  a  fashionable  woman  of  the  world.  Such  was  my 
mother.  Something  that  was  called  an  attachment  sprang 
up,  and  they  married.  She  preferred  the  situation  of  wife 
to  that  of  widow :  and  he,  having  been  accustomed  to  the 
social  comforts  of  a  domestic  circle,  despite  his  disasters,, 
dishked  his  bachelor  state.  They  married ;  and  I,  just  then 
eighteen — ^just  out,  as  it  is  called — became  the  sister  of  my 
beloved  Gerard. 

"  I  feel  pride  when  I  think  of  the  services  that  I  have  ren- 
dered him.  He  had  another  fall  from  his  horse  not  long- 
after,  or  leather,  again  urging  the  animal  down  a  precipice, 
it  fell.  He  was  underneath,  and  his  leg  was  broken.  Du- 
ring the  long  confinement  that  ensued,  I  was  his  faithful 
nurse  and  companion.  Naturally  lively,  yet  I  could  sympa- 
thize in  his  sorrows.  By  degrees  I  won  his  confidence.  He 
told  me  all  his  story — all  his  feelings.  He  grew  mild  and 
soft  under  my  influence.  He  grew  to  regret  that  he  had 
been  vanquished  by  adversity  so  as  to  become  almost  what 
he  Avas  accused  of  being,  a  frantic  idiot.  As  he  talked  of 
his  mother,  and  the  care  she  bestowed  on  his  early  years, 
he  wept  to  think  how  unlike  he  was  to  the  creature  she  had 
wished  him  to  become.  A  desire  to  reform,  to  repair  past 
faults,  to  school  himself,  grew  out  of  such  talk.  He  threw 
off  his  suUenness  and  gloom.  He  became  studious  at  the 
same  time  that  he  grew  gentle.  His  education,  which  had 
proceeded  but  badly  while  he  refused  to  lend  his  mind  to 
improvement,  was  now  the  object  of  his  own  thoughts  and 
exertions.  Instead  of  careering  wildly  over  the  hills,  or  be- 
ing thrown  under  some  tree  delivered  up  to  miserable  rev- 
ery,  he  asked  for  masters,  and  was  continually  seen  with  a 
book  in  his  hands. 

"  The  passion  of  his  soul  still  subsisted,  modulated  by  his 
new  feelings.  He  continued  to  believe  in  the  innocence  of 
his  mother,  though  he  often  doubted  her  existence.  He 
longed  inexpressibly  to  unveil  the  mystery  that  shrouded 
her  fate.  He  devoted  himself  in  his  heart  to  discovering 
the  truth.  He  resolved  to  occupy  his  whole  life  in  the  dear 
task  of  reinstating  her  in  that  cloudless  purity  of  reputation 


FALKNER.  131 

■which  he  intimately  felt  she  had  never  deserved  to  forfeit. 
He  considered  the  promise  exacted  from  him  by  his  father 
as  preventing  him  from  following  up  liis  design,  and  as  bind- 
ing him  till  he  was  twenty-one.  Till  then  he  deferred  his 
endeavours.  No  young  spendtlirift  ever  aspired  for  the  at- 
tainment of  the  age  of  freedom  and  the  possession  of  an  es- 
tate as  vehemently  as  did  Gerard  for  the  hour  which  was  to 
permit  him  to  deliver  himself  wholly  up  to  this  task. 

"  Before  that  time  arrived  I  married.  I  wished  to  take 
him  abroad  with  us  ;  but  the  unfounded  (as  I  believe)  notion 
that  the  secret  of  his  mother's  fate  is  linked  to  the  English 
shores  made  him  dislike  to  leave  his  native  country.  It  was 
oidy  on  our  return  that  he  consented  to  come  as  far  as  Mar- 
seilles to  meet  us. 

"  When  he  had  reached  the  age  of  twenty-one  he  an- 
nounced to  his  father  his  resolve  to  discover  his  mother's 
fate.  Sir  Boyvill  was  highly  indignant.  The  only  circum- 
stance that  at  all  mitigated  the  disgrace  of  his  wife's  flight 
was  the  oblivion  into  which  she  and  all  concerning  her  had 
sunk.  To  have  new  inquiries  set  on  foot,  and  the  forgotten 
shame  recalled  to  the  memories  of  men,  appeared  not  less 
wicked  than  insane.  He  remonstrated,  he  grew  angry,  he 
stormed,  he  forbade ;  but  Gerard  considered  that  time  had 
set  a  limit  to  his  authority,  and  only  withdrew  in  silence, 
not  the  less  determined  to  pursue  his  own  course. 

"  I  need  not  say  that  he  met  with  no  success;  a  mystery 
so  impenetrable  at  first,  does  not  acquire  clearness  after  time 
has  obscured  the  little  ever  known.  Whatever  were  the 
real  circumstances  and  feelings  that  occasioned  her  flight, 
however  innocent  she  might  then  be,  time  has  cemented  his 
mother's  union  with  another,  and  made  her  forget  those  she 
left  behind.  Or  may  I  not  say,  what  I  am  inclined  to  be- 
lieve, that  thougli  the  violence  of  another  was  the  cause  a*, 
last  of  guilt  in  her,  yet  she  pined  for  those  she  deserted — 
that  her  heart  was  soon  broken — that  the  sod  has  long  since 
covered  her  form — while  the  miserable  man  who  caused  all 
this  evil  is  but  too  eager  to  observe  a  silence  which  pre- 
vents his  name  from  being  loaded  with  the  execrations  he 
deserves  !  I  cannot  help,  therefore,  regretting  that  Gerard 
insists  upon  discovering  the  obscure  grave  of  his  miserable 
mother — while  he,  who,  whether  living  or  dead,  believes  her 
to  have  been  always  innocent,  is  to  be  dissuaded  by  no  ar- 
guments, still  less  by  the  angry  denunciations  of  Sir  Boyvill, 
whose  conduct  throughout  he  looks  on  as  being  the  primal 
cause  of  his  mother's  misfortunes. 

"  1  have  told  you  the  tale,  as  nearly  as  I  can,  in  the  spirit 
in  which  Gerard  himself  would  have  communicated  it — 
such  was  my  tacit  pledge  to  him  ;  nor  do  I  wish,  by  my  sus- 
picions or  conjectures,  to  deprive  him  of  your  sympathy, 
and  the  belief  he  wishes  you  to  entertain  of  liis  mother's 


132  FALKNER. 

innocence ;  but  truth  will  force  its  way,  and  who  can  think 
her  wholly  guiltless  1  Would  to  God !  oh,  how  often  and 
how  fervently  have  I  prayed  that  Gerard  were  cured  of  the 
madness  which  renders  his  life  a  wild,  unprofitable  dream ; 
and,  looking  soberly  on  the  past,  consent  to  bury  in  oblivion 
misfortunes  and  errors  which  are  beyond  all  cure,  and  which 
it  is  worse  than  vain  to  remember." 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

There  was  to  Elizabeth  a  fascinating  interest  in  the  story 
related  by  Lady  Cecil.  Elizabeth  had  no  wild  fairy-like 
imagination.  Her  talents,  which  were  remarkable,  her 
serious,  thoughtful  mind,  was  warmed  by  the  vital  heat 
emanating  from  her  affections — whatever  regarded  these, 
moved  her  deeply. 

Here  was  a  tale  full  of  human  interest,  of  love,  error,  of 
filial  tenderness,  and  deep-rooted,  uneradicable  fidelity. 
Elizabeth,  who  knew  little  of  life,  except  through  such  ex- 
perience as  she  gathered  from  the  emotions  of  her  own 
heart,  and  the  struggling  passions  of  Falkner,  could  not  re- 
gard the  story  in  the  same  worldly  light  as  Lady  Cecil. 
There  was  an  unfathomable  mystery  ;  but,  was  there  guilt 
as  far  as  regarded  Mrs.  Neville  ?  Elizabeth  could  not  believe 
it.  She  believed,  that  in  a  nature  as  finely  formed  as  hers 
was  described  to  have  been,  maternal  love,  and  love  for 
such  a  child  as  Gerard,  must  have  risen  paramount  to  every 
other  feeling.  Philosophers  have  said  that  the  most  exalted 
natures  are  endowed  with  the  strongest  and  deepest-seated 
passions.  It  is  by  combating  and  purifying  them  that  the 
human  being  rises  into  excellence ;  and  the  combat  is  as- 
sisted by  setting  the  good  in  opposition  to  the  evil.  Per- 
haps Mrs.  Neville  had  loved — though  even  that  seemed 
strange — but  her  devoted  affection  to  her  child  must  have 
been  more  powerful  than  a  love  which,  did  it  exist,  appeared 
unaccompanied  by  one  sanctifying  or  extenuating  circum- 
stance. 

Thus  thought  Elizabeth.  Gerard  appeared  in  a  beautiful 
and  heroic  light,  bent  on  his  holy  mission  of  redeeming  his 
mother's  name  from  the  stigma  accumulated  on  it.  Her 
heart  warmed  within  her  at  the  thought,  that  such  a  tcisk  as- 
similated to  hers.  She  was  endeavouring  to  reconcile  her 
benefactor  to  life,  and  to  remove  from  his  existence  the 
stings  of  unavailing  remorse.  She  tried  to  fancy  that  some 
secret  tie  existed  between  their  two  distinct  tasks  ;  and  that 
a  united  happy  end  would  spring  up  for  both. 


FALKNER.  133 

After  musing  for  some  time  in  silence,  at  length  she  said, 
"  But  you  do  not  tell  me  whither  Mr.  Neville  is  now  gone, 
and  what  it  is  that  has  so  newly  awakened  his  hopes." 

"  You  remind  me,"  replied  Lady  Cecil,  "  of  what  I  had 
nearly  forgotten.  It  is  a  provoking  and  painful  circum- 
stance ;  the  artifice  of  cupidity  to  dupe  enthusiasm.  You 
must  know  that  Gerard,  in  furtherance  of  his  wild  project, 
has  left  an  intimation  among  the  cottages  and  villages  near 
Dromore,  and  in  Lancaster  itself,  that  he  will  give  two  hun- 
dred pounds  to  any  one  who  shall  bring  any  information 
that  will  conduce  to  the  discovery  of  Mrs.  Neville's  fate. 
This  is  a  large  bribe  to  falsehood,  and  yet,  until  now,  no  one 
has  pretended  to  have  anything  to  tell.  But  the  other  day 
he  received  a  letter,  and  the  person  who  wrote  it  was  so 
earnest,  that  he  sent  a  duplicate  to  Sir  Boyvill.  This  letter 
stated  that  the  writer,  Gregory  Hoskins,  believed  himself 
to  be  in  possession  of  some  facts  connected  with  Mrs.  Ne- 
ville of  Dromore,  and  on  the  two  hundred  pounds  being  pro- 
perly secured  to  him  by  a  written  bond  he  would  commu- 
nicate them.  This  letter  was  dated  Lancaster — thither 
Gerard  is  gone." 

"  Does  it  speak  of  l\Irs.  Neville  as  still  alive  V  asked 
EliKabeth. 

"  It  says  barely  the  words  which  I  have  repeated,"  Lady 
Cecil  replied.  "  Sir  Boyvill,  knowing  his  son's  impetuosity, 
hurried  down  here,  to  stop,  if  he  could,  his  reviving,  through 
such  means,  the  recollection  of  his  unfortunate  lady — with 
what  success  you  have  seen  ;  Gerard  is  gone,  nor  can  any 
one  guess  what  tale  will  be  trumped  up  to  deceive  and  rob 
him." 

Elizabeth  could  not  feel  as  secure  as  her  friend,  that  no- 
thing would  come  of  tlie  promised  information.  This  was 
not  strange  ;  besides,  the  different  view  taken  by  a  worldly 
and  an  experienced  person,  the  tale,  with  all  its  mystery, 
was  an  old  one  to  Lady  Cecil ;  while,  to  her  friend,  it  bore 
the  freshness  of  novelty  :  to  the  one,  it  was  a  story  of  the 
dead  and  the  forgotten ;  to  the  other,  it  was  replete  with 
living  interest  ;  the  enthusiasm  of  Gerard  communicated 
itself  to  her,  and  she  felt  that  his  present  journey  was  full 
of  event,  the  first  step  in  a  discovery  of  all  that  hitherto  had 
been  inscnuable. 

A  few  days  brought  a  letter  from  Gerard.  liady  Cecil 
read  it,  and  then  gave  it  to  her  j'oung  friend  to  peruse.  It 
was  dated  Lancaster ;  it  said,  "  My  journey  has  hitherto 
been  fruitless ;  this  man  Hoskins  has  gone  from  Lancas- 
ter, leaving  word  that  I  should  find  him  in  London,  but  in 
so  negligent  a  way  as  to  lower  my  hopes  considerably. 
His  chief  aim  must  be  to  earn  the  promised  reward,  and  I 
feel  sure  that  he  would  take  more  pains  to  obtain  it,  did  he 
think  that  it  was  really  within  his  grasp. 
12 


134  FALKNER. 

"  He  arrived  but  a  few  weeks  since,  it  seems,  from  Amer- 
ica, whither  he  migrated,  some  twenty  years  ago,  from 
llavenglass.  How  can  he  bring  news  of  her  I  seek  from 
across  the  Atlantic  ?  The  veiy  idea  fills  me  with  disturb- 
ance. Has  he  seen  her]  Great  God!  does  she  yet  live? 
Did  slie  commission  him  to  make  inquiries  concerning  her 
abandoned  child  T  No,  Sophia,  my  life  on  it,  it  is  not  so  ; 
she  is  dead !     My  heart  too  truly  reveals  the  sad  truth  to  me. 

"  Can  I  then  wish  to  hear  that  she  is  no  more  ]  My  dear, 
dear  mother !  Were  all  the  accusations  true  which  are 
brought  against  you,  still  would  I  seek  your  retreat,  endeav- 
our to  assuage  your  sori'ows  ;  wherever,  whatever  you  are, 
you  are  of  more  worth  to  me — methinks  that  you  must  still 
be  more  worthy  of  aflfection  than  all  else  that  the  earth 
contains!  But  it  is  not  so.  I  feel  it— I  know  it — she  is 
dead.  Yet  when,  where,  how]  Oh,  my  father's  vain  com- 
mands !  I  would  walk  barefoot  to  the  summit  of  the  Andes 
to  have  these  questions  answered.  The  interval  that  must 
elapse  before  I  reach  London,  and  see  this  man,  is  hard  to 
bear.  What  will  he  tell!  Nothing !  often,  in  my  lucid  in- 
tervals, as  my  father  would  call  them,  in  my  hours  of  des- 
pondency, I  fear — nothing  ! 

"You  have  not  played  me  false,  dearest  Sophy?  In  tel- 
ling your  lovely  friend  the  strange  story  of  my  woes,  you 
have  taught  her  to  mourn  my  mother's  fate,  not  to  suspect 
her  goodness  T  I  am  half  angry  with  myself  for  devolving 
the  task  upon  you.  For,  despite  your  kind  endeavours,  I 
read  your  heart,  my  worldly-wise  sister,  and  know  its  unbe- 
lief. I  forgive  you,  for  you  never  saw  my  mother's  face,  nor 
heard  her  voice.  Had  you  ever  beheld  the  purity  and  in- 
tegrity that  sat  upon  her  brow,  and  listened  to  her  sweet 
tones,  she  would  visit  your  dreams  by  day  and  night,  as  she 
does  mine,  in  the  guise  of  an  angel  robed  in  perfect  inno- 
cence. I  cannot  forgive  my  father  for  his  accusations  ;  his 
own  heart  must  be  bad,  or  he  could  not  credit  that  any  evil 
inhabited  hers.  For  how  many  years  that  guileless  heart  was 
laid  bare  to  him  !  and  if  it  was  not  so  fond  and  admiring 
towards  himself  as  he  could  have  wished,  still  there  was  no 
concealment,  no  tortuosity ;  he  saw  it  all,  though  now  he 
discredits  the  evidence  of  his  senses — shuts  his  eyes, 

'  And  hooting  at  the  glorious  sun  in  Heaven, 
Cries  out,  "  Where  is  it  ?"  ' 

For  truth  was  her  attribute ;  the  open  heart,  which  made 
the  brow,  the  eyes,  the  cheerful  mien,  the  sweet,  loving 
smile  and  thrilling  voice,  all  transcripts  of  its  pure  emotions. 
It  was  this  that  rendered  her  the  adorable  being,  which  all 
who  knew  her  acknowledge  that  she  was. 

"  I  am  solicitous  beyond  measure  that  Miss  Falkner  should 
receive  no   false  impression.    Her  image  is  before  nie, 


FALKNER.  135 

when  I  saw  her  first,  pale  in  the  agony  of  fear,  bending  over 
her  dying  father ;  by  day  and  by  night  she  forgot  herself  to 
attend  on  him.  She  who  loves  a  parent  so  well  can  under- 
stand me  better  than  any  other.  She,  I  am  convinced,  will 
form  a  true  judgment.  She  will  approve  my  perseverance, 
and  share  my  doubts  and  fears  ;  will  she  not  ]  ask  her — or 
am  I  too  vain,  too  credulous  ?  Is  there  in  the  whole  world 
one  creature  who  will  join  with  me  in  my  faith  and  my  la- 
bours ?  You  do  not,  Sophia ;  that  I  have  long  known,  and 
the  feeling  of  disappointment  is  already  blunted  ;  but  it  will 
revive,  it  will  be  barbed  with  a  new  sting,  if  I  am  deceived 
in  my  belief  that  Elizabeth  Falkner  shares  my  convictions, 
and  appreciates  the  utility,  the  necessity  of  my  endeavours. 
I  do  not  desire  her  pity,  that  you  give  me  ;  but  at  this  mo- 
ment I  am  blessed  by  the  hope  that  she  feels  with  me.  I  can- 
not tell  you  the  good  this  idea  does  me.  It  spurs  me  to 
double  energy  in  my  pursuit,  and  it  sustains  me  during  the 
uncertainty  that  attends  it :  it  makes  me  inexpressibly  more 
anxious  to  clear  my  mother's  name  in  her  eyes ;  since  she 
deigns  to  partake  my  griefs^  I  desire  that  she  should  here- 
after share  in  the  triumph  of  my  success. 

"  My  success !  the  word  throws  me  ten  thousand  fathoms 
deap,  from  the  thoughts  of  innocence  and  goodness,  to  those 
of  wrongs,  death,  or  living  misery.  Farewell,  dearest  So- 
phia. This  letter  is  written  at  night ;  to-morrow,  early,  I 
set  out  by  a  fast  coach  to  London.  I  shall  write  again,  or 
you  will  see  me  soon.  Keep  Miss  Falkner  with  you  till  I 
return,  and  write  me  a  few  words  of  encouragement." 

Not  a  line  in  this  letter  but  interested  and  gratified  Eliza- 
beth— and  Lady  Cecil  saw  the  blush  of  pleasure  mantle 
over  her  speaking  countenance  ;  she  was  half  glad,  half 
sorry — she  looked  on  Elizabeth  as  "she  who  could  cure 
Gerard  of  his  Quixotic  devotion,  by  inspiring  him  with  feel- 
ings which,  wjiile  they  had  all  the  enthusiasm  natural  to  his 
disposition,  would  detach  him  from  his  vain  endeavours,  and 
centre  his  views  and  happiness  in  the  living  instead  of  the  dead. 
Lady  Cecil  knew  that  Gerard  already  loved  her  friend — he 
had  never  loved  before — and  the  tenderness  of  his  manner, 
and  the  admiration  that  lighted  up  his  eyes  whenever  he 
looked  on  her,  revealed  the  birth  of  passion.  Elizabeth,  less 
quick  to  feel,  or  at  least  more  tranquil  in  the  display  of  feel- 
ing, yet  sympathized  too  warmly  with  him — felt  too  deeply 
interested  in  all  he  said  and  did,  not  to  betray  that  she  was 
touched  by  the  divine  fire  that  smooths  the  ruggedness  of 
life,  and  fills  with  peace  and  smiles  a  darkling,  stormy 
world.  But  instead  of  weaning  Gerard  from  his  madness, 
she  encouraged  him  in  it — as  she  well  knew  ;  for  when  she 
wrote  to  Gerard,  she  asked  Elizabeth  to  add  a  few  lines, 
and  thus  she  wrote  : 


138  FALKNER. 

"  I  thank  you  for  the  confidence  you  repose  in  me,  and 
more  than  that,  I  must  express  how  deeply  I  feel  for 
you,  the  more  that  I  think  that  justice  and  truth  are  on 
your  side.  Whether  you  succeed  or  not,  I  confess  that  I 
think  you  are  right  in  your  endeavours — your  aim  is  a  noble 
and  a  sacred  one — and,  like  you,  I  cherish  the  hope  that  it 
will  end  in  the  exculpation  of  one  deeply  injured — and  your 
being  rewarded  for  your  fidelity  to  her  memory.  Godliless 
you  with  all  the  happiness  you  deserve." 

No  subsequent  letter  arrived  from  Gerard.  Lady  Cecil 
wondered  and  conjectured,  and  expected  impatiently.  She 
and  her  friend  could  talk  of  nothing  else.  The  strange  fact 
that  a  traveller  from  America  proclaimed  that  he  had  tidings 
of  the  lost  one,  offered  a  fertile  field  for  suppositions.  Had 
Mrs.  Neville  been  carried  across  the  Atlantic  1  How  im- 
possible was  this,  against  her  own  consent!  No  pirate's 
bark  was  there,  with  a  crew  experienced  in  crime,  ready  to 
acquiesce  in  a  deed  of  violence ;  no  fortalice  existed,  in 
whose  impenetrable  walls  she  could  have  been  immured ;  yet 
so  much  of  strange  and  fearful  must  belong  to  her  fate,  which 
the  imagination  mourned  to  think  of !  Love,  though  in  these 
days  it  carries  on  its  tragedies  more  covertly — and  kills  by 
the  slow,  untold  pang — by  the  worm  in  the  bosom — and  ex- 
erts its  influence  rather  by  teaching  deceit  than  insti- 
gating to  acts  of  violence,  yet  love  reigns  in  the  hearts 
of  men  as  tyrannically  and  fiercely — and  causes  as  much 
evil,  as  much  ruin,  and  as  many  tears,  as  when,  in  the 
younger  world,  hecatombs  were  slain  in  his  honour.  In 
former  days  mortals  wasted  rather  life  than  feehng,  and 
every  blow  was  a  physical  one  ;  now  the  heart  dies,  though 
the  body  lives — and  a  miserable  existence  is  dragged  out, 
after  hope  and  joy  have  ceased  to  adorn  it ;  yet  love  is  still, 
despite  the  schoolmaster  and  the  legislator,  the  prime  law 
of  human  life,  and  Alithea  Neville  was  well  fitted  to  inspire 
an  ardent  passion.  She  had  a  sensibility  which,  while  it 
gave  strengtli  to  her  affections,  yet  diffused  a  certain  weak- 
ness over  the  mechanism  of  her  being,  that  made  those 
around  her  tremble  ;  she  had  genius  which  added  lustre  to 
her  eye,  and  shed  around  her  a  fascination  of  maimer, 
which  no  man  could  witness  without  desiring  to  dedicate 
himself  to  her  service.  She  seemed  the  very  object  whom 
Sheridan  addressed  when  he  said — 

"  For  friends  in  every  age  you'll  meet, 
And  lovers  in  the  young." 

That  she  should  be  loved  to  desperation  could  excite  no 
wonder — but  what  had  been  the  effects  of  this  love  ?  a  dis- 
tant home  aci'oss  the  ocean — a  home  of  privation  and  sor- 
row— the  yearning  for  her  lost  children — the  slow  breakmg 
of  the  contrite  heart ;  a  life  dragged  on  despite  the  pangs 


FALKNER.  187 

of  memory — or  a  nameless  grave.     Such  were  the  conjec- 
tures caused  by  the  letter  of  the  American. 

At  length  Neville  returned.  Each  turned  her  eye  on  his 
face,  to  read  the  intelligence  he  had  acquired  in  his  speaking 
countenance.  It  was  sad.  "  She  lives  and  is  lost,"  thought 
Lady  Cecil ;  "  He  mourns  her  dead  !"  was  the  supposition 
of  the  single-minded  Elizabeth.  At  first  he  avoided  the 
subject  of  his  inquiry,  and  his  companions  did  not  question 
him  ;  till  at  last  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  Do  you  not  wish 
to  learn  something,  Sophia  \  Have  you  forgotten  the  object 
of  my  journey  !" 

"  Dear  Gerard,"  replied  Lady  Cecil,  "  these  walls  and 
woods,  had  they  a  voice,  could  tell  you  that  we  have  thought 
and  spoken  of  nothing  else." 

"  She  is  dead  !"  he  answered,  abruptly. 

A  start — an  exclamation  was  the  reply.  He  continued  : 
"  If  there  be  any  truth  in  the  tale  I  have  heard,  my  dear,  in- 
jured jiiother  is  dead  ;  that  is,  if  what  I  have  heard  concern 
her — mean  anything,  or  is  not  a  mere  fabrication.  You 
shall  hear  all  by-and-by ;  I  will  relate  all  I  have  been  told. 
It  is  a  sad  story  if  it  be  hers,  if  it  be  a  true  story  at  all." 

These  disjointed  expressions  raised  the  curiosity  and  m- 
terest  of  his  auditors  to  their  height.  It  was  evening ;  in- 
stead of  going  on  with  his  account,  he  passed  into  the  ad- 
joining room,  opened  the  glass  door,  and  stepped  out  into 
the  open  air.  It  was  dark,  scarcely  could  you  see  the  dim 
outline  of  the  woods — yet,  far  on  the  horizon  where  sky 
and  sea  met,  there  was  a  streak  of  light.  Sophia  and  Eliza- 
beth followed  to  the  room  whence  he  had  gone,  and  drew 
their  chairs  near  the  open  window  and  pressed  each  other's 
hands. 

"  What  can  it  all  mean  1"  at  length  said  Lady  Cecil. 

"  Hush !"  whispered  EUzabeth — "  he  is  here,  I  saw  him 
cross  the  streak  of  hght." 

"  True,"  said  Gerard's  voice — his  person  they  could  not 
distinguish,  for  they  were  in  darkness ;  "  I  am  here,  and  I 
will  tell  you  now  all  I  have  heard.  I  will  sit  at  your  feet ; 
give  me  your  hand,  Sophy,  that  I  may  feel  that  you  are 
really  present — it  is  too  dark  to  see  anything." 

He  did  not  ask  for  Elizabeth's  hand,  but  he  took  it,  and 
placing  it  on  Lady  Cecil's,  gently  clasped  both  :  "  I  cannot 
see  either  of  you — but  indulge  my  wayward  humour ;  so 
much  of  coarse  and  commonplace  has  been  thrown  on  the 
most  sacred  subject  in  the  world,  that  I  want  to  bathe  my 
soul  in  darkness — a  darkness  as  profound  as  that  which 
wraps  my  mother's  fate.  Now  for  my  story. 
12* 


13S  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  You  know  that  I  did  not  find  tliis  man,  this  Hoskins,  at 
Lancaster.  By  his  direction  I  sought  him  in  London,  and, 
after  some  trouble,  found  him.  He  was  busy  in  his  own 
affairs,  and  it  was  difficult  to  get  at  him ;  but,  by  perseve- 
rance, and  asking  him  to  dine  with  me  at  a  coffee-house,  I 
at  last  succeeded.  He  is  a  native  of  Ravenglass,  a  misera- 
ble town  on  the  seashore  of  Cumberland,  with  which  I  am 
well  acquainted,  for  it  is  not  far  from  Dromore.  He  emi- 
grated to  America  before  I  was  born ;  and  after  various 
speculations,  is  at  last  settled  at  Boston,  in  some  sort  of 
trade,  the  exigences  of  which  brought  him  over  here,  and 
he  seized  the  opportunity  to  visit  his  family.  There  they 
were,  still  inhabiting  the  forlorn  town  of  Ravenglass  ;  their 
cottage  still  looking  out  on  a  dreary  extent  of  sand,  mud, 
and  marsh ;  and  the  far  mountains,  which  would  seem  to  in- 
vite the  miserable  dwellers  of  the  flats  to  shelter  themselves 
in  their  green  recesses,  but  they  invite  in  vain. 

"  Hoskins  found  his  mother,  a  woman  nearly  a  hundred 
years  of  age,  alive;  and  a  widowed  sister  living  with  her, 
surrounded  by  a  dozen  children  of  all  ages.  He  passed  two 
days  with  them,  and  naturally  recurred  to  the  changes  that 
had  taken  place  in  the  neighbourhood.  He  had  at  one  time 
had  dealings  with  the  steward  of  Dromore,  and  had  seen 
my  father.  When  he  emigrated.  Sir  Boyvill  had  just  mar- 
ried. Hoskins  asked  how  it  went  on  with  him  and  his 
bride.  It  is  our  glorious  fate  to  be  in  the  mouths  of  the 
vulgar,  so  he  heard  the  story  of  my  mother's  mysterious 
flight ;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  he  was  told  of  my  boyish 
wanderings,  my  search  for  my  mother,  and  my  declaration 
that  I  would  give  two  hundred  pounds  to  any  one  through 
whose  means  I  should  discover  her  fate. 

"  The  words  fell  at  first  upon  a  heedless  ear,  but  the  next 
morning  it  all  at  once  struck  him  that  he  might  gain  the  re- 
ward, and  he  wrote  to  me  ;  and  as  I  was  described  as  a 
wanderer  without  a  home,  he  wrote  also  to  my  father. 
When  I  saw  him  in  town,  he  seemed  ashamed  of  the  trou- 
ble I  had  taken.  '  It  is  I  who  am  to  get  the  two  hundred 
pounds,'  he  said,  '  not  you ;  the  chance  was  worth  wasting 
a  little  breath  ;  but  you  may  not  think  the  little  I  have  to 
tell  worth  your  long  journey.' 

"  At  length  I  brought  him  to  the  point.  At  one  period,  a 
good  many  years  ago,  he  was  a  settler  in  New- York,  and 
by  some  chance  he  fell  in  with  a  man  lately  arrived  from 
England,  who  asked  his  advice  as  to  obtaining  employment : 


FALKNER.  1^ 

he  had  some  little  money — some  few  hundred  pounds,  but 
lie  did  not  wish  to  sink  it  in  trade  or  the  purchase  of  land, 
but  to  get  some  situation  with  a  tolerable  salary,  and  keep 
his  little  capital  at  command.  A  strange  way  of  using 
money  and  time  in  America!  but  such  was  the  fancy  of  the 
stranger;  he  said  he  should  not  be  easy  unless  he  could 
draw  out  his  money  at  any  time,  and  emigrate  at  an  hour's 
notice.  This  man's  name  was  Osborne ;  he  was  shrewd, 
ready-witted,  and  good-natured,  but  idle,  and  even  unprinci- 
pled. '  He  did  me  a  good  turn  once,'  said  Hoskins,  '  which 
makes  me  unwilling  to  do  him  a  bad  one ;  but  you  cannot 
injure  him,  I  think,  in  America.  He  has  risen  in  the  world 
since  the  time  I  mention,  and  has  an  employment  under  our 
minister  at  Mexico.  After  all,  he  did  not  tell  me  much,  and 
what  I  learned  came  out  in  long  talks  by  degrees,  during  a 
journey  or  two  we  took  together  to  the  West.  He  had  been 
a  traveller,  a  soldier  in  the  East  Indies,  and  unlucky  every- 
where ;  and  it  had  gone  hard  with  him  at  one  time  in  Ben- 
gal, but  for  the  kindness  of  a  friend.  He  was  a  gentleman 
far  above  him  in  station  who  got  him  out  of  trouble,  and 
paid  his  passage  to  England  ;  and  afterward,  when  this 
gentleman  returned  himself  to  the  island,  he  found  Osborne 
in  trouble  again,  and  again  he  assisted  him.  In  short,  sir, 
it  came  out,  that  if  this  gentleman  (Osborne  irould  never 
tell  his  name)  stood  his  friend,  it  was  not  for  nothing  this 
time.  There  was  a  lady  to  be  carried  off.  Osborne  swore 
he  did  not  know  who — he  thought  it  a  runaway  match  ;  but 
it  turned  out  something  worse,  for  never  did  girl  take  on  so 
for  leaving  her  home  with  a  lover.  I  tell  the  story  badly, 
for  I  never  got  the  rights  of  it.  It  ended  tragically — the 
lady  died — was  drowned,  as  well  as  I  could  make  out,  in 
some  river.  You  know  how  dangerous  the  streams  are  on 
our  coast. 

"  '  It  was  the  naming  Cumberland  and  our  estuaries  that 
set  me  asking  questions,  which  frightened  Osborne.  When 
he  found  that  I  was  a  native  of  that  part  of  the  world,  he  grew 
as  mute  as  a  fish,  and  never  a  word  more  of  lady  or  friend 
did  I  get  from  him  ;  except,  as  I  guessed,  he  was  well  re- 
warded, and  sent  over  the  water  out  of  the  way  ;  and  he 
swore  he  believed  that  the  gentleman  was  dead  too.  It 
was  no  murder — that  he  averred,  but  a  sad  tragic  accident 
that  might  look  like  one ;  and  he  grew  as  white  as  a  sheet 
if  ever  I  tried  to  bring  him  to  speak  of  it  again.  It  haunted 
his  thoughts  nevertheless  :  and  he  would  talk  in  his  sleep, 
and  dream  of  being  hanged — and  mutter  about  a  grave  dug 
in  the  sands,  and  there  being  no  parson  ;  and  the  dark  break- 
ers of  the  ocean — and  horses  scampering  away,  and  the 
lady's  wet  hair — nothing  regular,  but  such  as  often  made  me 
■waken  him;  for  in  wild  nights,  such  mutterings  were  no 
lullaby. 


140  FALKNER. 

"  '  Now,  sir,  whether  the  lady  he  spoke  of  were  your 
lady  mother,  is  more  than  I  can  say ;  but  the  time  and  place 
tally.  It  is  twelve  years  this  summer  since  he  came  out ; 
and  it  had  just  happened,  for  his  heart  and  head  were  full  of 
horrors,  and  he  feared  every  vessel  from  Europe  brought 
out  a  warrant  to  arrest  him,  or  the  like.  He  was  a  chicken- 
hearted  fellow ;  and  I  have  known  him  hide  himself  for  a 
week  when  a  packet  came  from  Liverpool.  But  he  got 
courage  as  time  went  on  ;  when  I  saw  him  last,  he  had  for- 
gotten all  about  it ;  and  when  I  jeered  him  about  his  terrors, 
he  laughed,  and  said  all  was  well,  and  he  should  not  care 
going  to  England  ;  for  that  the  story  was  blown  over,  and 
neither  he  nor  his  friend  even  so  much  as  suspected. 

"  '  This,  sir,  is  my  story  ;  and  I  don't  think  he  ever  told 
me  any  more,  or  that  I  can  remember  anything  else  ;  but 
such  as  I  tell  it,  I  can  swear  to  it.  There  was  a  lady  run 
olf  with,  and  she  died,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  before  she 
quitted  the  coast ;  and  was  buried,  as  we  might  bury  in  the 
far  West,  Avithout  bell  or  prayer-book.  And  Osborne  does 
not  know  the  name  of  the  lady :  but  the  gentleman  he  knew, 
though  he  has  never  since  heard  of  him,  and  believes  him 
to  be  dead.  You  best  know  whether  ray  story  is  worth  the 
two  hundred  pounds.' 

"  Such,  Sophia,  is  the  tale  I  heard.  Such  is  the  coarse 
hand  and  vulgar  tongue  that  first  touches  the  veil  that  con- 
ceals my  mother's  fate." 

"  It  is  a  strange  stoiy,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  shuddering. 

"  But,  on  my  life,  a  true  one,"  cried  Neville,  "  as  I  will 
prove.  Osborne  is  now  at  l\Iexico.  I  have  inquired  at  the 
American  consul's.  He  is  expected  back  to  Washington  at 
the  end  of  this  summer.  In  a  few  weeks  I  shall  embark 
and  see  this  man,  who  now  bears  a  creditable  character, 
and  learn  if  there  is  any  foundation  for  Hoskins's  conjec- 
tures. If  there  is — and  can  I  doubt  it  1  if  my  mother  died 
as  he  says,  I  shall  learn  the  manner  of  her  death,  and  who 
is  the  murderer." 

"  Murderer !"  echoed  both  his  auditors. 

"  Yes  ;  I  cannot  retract  the  word.  Murderer  in  effect,  if 
not  in  deed.  Remember,  I  witnessed  the  act  of  violence 
which  tore  my  mother  from  me.  He  who  carried  her  away 
is,  in  all  justice,  an  assassin,  even  if  his  hands  be  not  im- 
brued with  blood.  Blood !  did  I  say  1  Nay,  none  was  shed. 
I  know  the  spot ;  I  have  viewed  the  very  scene.  Our 
waste  and  desolate  coast — the  perilous,  deceitful  rivers,  in 
one  of  which  she  perislied — the  very  night,  so  tempestuous 
— the  wild  west  wind  bearing  the  tide  with  irresistible  im- 
petuosity up  the  estuaries — he  seeking  the  solitary  sands — 
perhaps  some  smuggling  vessel  lying  in  wait  to  carry  her 
off  unseen,  unheard.  To  me  it  is  as  if  I  knew  each  act  of 
the  tragedy,  and  heard  her  last  sigh  beneath  the  waves 


PALKNER.  14). 

breathed  for  me.  She  was  dragged  out  by  these  men  ; 
buried  without  friend;  without  (k'ceiit  rites;  her  tomb  the 
evil  report  her  enemj'  raisrd  above  her  ;  her  grave  the  sands 
of  tliat  dreary  sliore.  Oh,  what  wild,  what  miserable 
thoughts  are  these !  This  tale,  instead  of  alleviating  my 
anxious  doubts,  has  taken  the  sleep  out  from  my  eyes.  Im- 
ages of  death  are  for  ever  passing  before  me  ;  I  think  of  the 
murderer  with  a  heart  tliat  pants  for  revenge,  and  of  my 
beloved  mother  with  such  pity,  such  religious  wo,  that  I 
would  spend  my  life  on  that  shore  seeking  her  remains,  so 
that  at  last  I  might  shed  my  tears  above  them,  and  bear 
them  to  a  more  sacred  spot.  There  is  an  easier  way  to 
gain  both  ends." 

"  It  is  a  sad,  but  a  wild  and  uncertain  story,"  remarked 
Lady  Cecil,  "  and  not  sufficiently  plain,  I  think,  to  take  you 
away  from  us  all  across  the  Atlantic." 

"  A  far  slighter  clew  would  take  me  so  far,"  replied  Gerard, 
*'  as  you  well  know.  It  is  not  for  a  traveller  to  Egypt  to 
measure  miles  with  such  timidity.  My  dear  Sophy,  you 
would  indeed  think  me  mad  if,  after  devoting  ray  life  to  one 
pursuit,  I  were  now  to  permit  a  voyage  across  the  Atlantic 
to  stand  between  me  and  the  slightest  chance  of  having  my 
doubts  cleared  up.  It  is  a  voyage  which  thousands  take 
every  week  for  their  interest  or  their  pleasure.  I  do  much, 
I  think,  in  postponing  my  journey  till  this  man  returns  to 
Washington.  At  first  I  had  thought  of  taking  my  passage 
on  the  instant,  and  meeting  him  on  his  journey  homeward 
from  Mexico  ;  but  I  might  miss  him.  Yet  I  long  to  be  on 
the  spot,  in  America  ;  for,  if  anything  should  happen  to 
him  ;  if  he  should  die,  and  his  secret  die  with  him,  how  for 
ever  after  I  should  be  stung  by  self-reproach  1" 

"  But  there  seems  to  me  so  little  foundation,"  Lady  Ce- 
cil began.  Neville  made  an  impatient  gesture,  exclaiming, 
"  Are  you  not  unreasonable,  Sophy  ]  my  father  has  made  a 
complete  convert  of  you." 

Ehzabeth  interposed,  and  asked,  "You  saw  this  man  more 
than  once  V 

"  Who  T  Hoskins  1  Yes,  three  times,  and  he  always  told 
the  same  story.  He  persisted  in  the  main  points.  That 
the  scene  of  the  carrying  off  of  the  lady  was  his  native 
shore,  the  coast  of  Cumberland  ;  that  the  act  immediately 
preceded  Osborne's  arrival  in  America,  twelve  years  ago  ; 
and  that  she  died  miserably,  the  victim  of  her  wretched 
lover.  He  knew  Osborne  immediately  on  his  coming  to 
New- York,  when  he  was  still  suffering  from  the  panic  of 
such  a  tragedy,  dreading  the  arrival  of  every  vessel  from 
England.  At  that  time  he  concealed  carefully  from  his 
new  friend  what  he  afterward,  in  the  overflow  of  his  heart, 
communicated  so  freely  ;  and,  in  after  times,  he  reminded 
him  how^,  when  an  emissary  of  the  police  came  from  Lon- 


142  FALKNER. 

don  to  seek  after  some  fraudulent  defaulter,  he,  only  hearing 
vaguely  that  there  was  search  made  for  a  criminal,  hid  him- 
self for  several  days.  That  Osborne  was  privy  to,  was  par- 
ticipator in  a  friglitful  tragedy,  which,  to  my  eyes,  bears 
the  aspect  of  murder,  seems  certain.  I  do  not,  I  cannot 
doubt  that  my  mother  died  then  and  there.  How]  the 
blood  curdles  to  ask ;  but  I  would  compass  the  earth  to 
learn,  to  vindicate  her  name,  to  avenge  her  death." 

Elizabeth  felt  Gerard's  liand  tremble  and  grow  cold.  He 
rose,  and  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room,  while  Lady 
Cecil  whispered  to  her  friend,  "  I  am  so  very,  very  sorry ! 
To  go  to  America  on  such  a  story  as  this,  a  story  which, 
if  it  bear  any  semblance  to  the  truth,  had  better  be  for  ever 
buried  in  oblivion.  Dear  Ehzabeth,  dissuade  him,  I  entreat 
you." 

"  Do  you  think  Mr.  Neville  so  easy  of  persuasion,  or  that 
he  ought  to  be  ]"  replied  her  companion.  "  Certainly,  all 
that  he  has  heard  is  vague,  coming,  as  it  does,  from  a  third, 
and  an  interested  person.  But  his  whole  life  has  been  de- 
voted to  the  exculpation  of  his  mother  ;  and,  if  he  Relieves 
that  this  tale  affords  a  clew  to  lead  to  discovery,  hr3  is  a  son, 
and  the  nature  that  stirs  within  him  may  gift  him  with  a 
clearer  vision  and  a  truer  instinct  than  we  can  pretend  to. 
Who  can  say  but  that  a  mysterious  yet  powerful  hand 
is  at  last  held  out  to  guide  him  to  the  completion  of  his 
task  1  Oh,  dear  Lady  Cecil,  there  are  secrets  in  the  moral, 
sentient  world,  of  whicii  we  know  nothing  :  such  as  brought 
Hamlet's  father  before  his  eyes ;  such  as  now  may  be  stir 
ring  in  your  brother's  heart,  revealing  to  him  the  truth,  al- 
most without  his  own  knowledge." 

"  You  are  as  mad  as  he,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  peevishly. 
"I  thought  you  a  calm  and  reasonable  being,  who  would 
co-operate  with  me  in  weaning  Gerard  from  his  wild  fan- 
cies, and  in  reconciling  him  to  the  world  as  it  is  ;  but  you 
indulge  in  metaphysical  sallies  and  sublime  flights,  which 
my  commonplace  mind  can  only  regard  as  a  sort  of  intel- 
lectual will-o'-the-wisp.  You  betray,  instead  of  assisting 
me.  Peace  be  with  Mrs.  Neville,  whether  in  her  grave, 
or,  in  some  obscure  retreat,  she  grieves  over  the  follies  of 
her  youth.  She  has  been  mourned  for,  as  never  mother 
was  mourned  before ;  but  be  reasonable,  dear  Elizabeth, 
and  aid  me  in  putting  a  stop  to  Gerard's  insane  career. 
You  can,  if  you  will ;  he  reveres  you — he  would  listen  to 
you.  Do  not  talk  of  mysterious  hands,  and  Hamlet's 
ghost,  and  all  that  is  to  carry  us  away  to  Fairyland ;  but  of 
the  rational  duties  of  life,  and  the  proper  aim  of  a  man,  to 
be  useful  to  the  living,  and  not  spend  the  best  years  of  his 
life  in  dreams  of  the  dead." 

"  What  can  I  say  V  replied  Elizabeth  :  "  you  will  be  an- 
gry, but  I  sympathize  with  Mr.  Neville  ;  and  I  cannot  help 


FALKNER.  143 

saying,  though  you  scoff  at  me,  that.  I  think  that,  in  all  he 
is  doing,  he  is  obeying  the  most  sacred  law  of  our  nature — 
exculpating  tlie  innocent,  and  rendering  duty  to  her  who 
has  a  right,  living  or  dead,  to  demand  all  his  love." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  "  I  have  managed  very  ill ;  i  had 
meant  to  make  you  my  ally,  and  have  failed.  1  do  not  op- 
pose Gerard  in  Sir  Boy vill's  open,  angry  maimer ;  but  it  has 
been  uiy  endeavour  throughout  to  mitigate  his  zeal,  and  to 
change  him,  from  a  wild  sort  of  visionary,  into  a  man  of 
this  world.  He  has  talents,  he  is  the  heir  to  large  posses- 
sions, his  father  would  gladly  assist  any  rational  pursuit ; 
he  might  make  a  figure  in  his  country,  he  might  be  anything 
he  pleased ;  and,  instead  of  this,  all  is  wasted  on  the  un- 
happy dead.  You  do  wrong  to  encourage  him ;  think  of 
what  I  say,  and  use  your  influence  in  a  more  beneficial 
manner." 

During  the  following  days,  this  sort  of  argument  was 
several  times  renewed.  Lady  Cecil,  who  had  heretofore 
opposed  Neville  covertly,  with  some  show  of  sympathy, 
the  fallacy  of  which  he  easily  detected,  and  who  had 
striven  rather  to  lead  him  to  forget,  than  to  argue  against 
his  views,  now  openly  opposed  his  voyage  to  America. 
Gerard  heard  in  silence.  He  would  not  reply.  Nothfng  she 
said  carried  the  slightest  weight  with  him,  and  he  had  long 
been  accustomed  to  opposition,  and  to  take  his  own  way  in 
spite  of  it.  He  was  satisfied  to  do  so  now,  without  making 
an  effort  to  convince  her.  Yet  he  was  hurt,  and  turned 
gladly  to  Elizabeth  for  consolation.  Her  avowed  and  warm 
approval,  her  anxious  sympathy,  the  certainty  she  expressed 
that  in  the  end  he  would  succeed,  and  that  his  enthusiasm 
and  zeal  were  implanted  in  his  heart  for  the  express  pur- 
pose of  his  mother's  vindication,  and  that  he  would  fail  in 
every  higher  duty  if  he  now  held  back  ;  all  this  echoed  so 
faithfully  his  own  thoughts,  that  she  already  appeared  a 
portion  of  his  existence  that  he  could  never  part  from,  the 
dear  and  promised  reward  of  all  his  exertions. 

In  the  ardour  of  her  sympathy,  Elizabeth  wrote  to  Falk- 
ner.  She  had  before  written  to  tell  him  that  she  had  seen 
again  her  friend  of  Marseilles ;  she  wrote  trembUng,  fearful 
of  being  recalled  home  ;  for  she  remembered  the  mysterious 
shrinking  of  her  father  from  the  name  of  Neville.  His  re- 
plies, however,  only  spoke  of  a  short  journey  he  was  ma- 
king, and  a  delay  in  his  own  joining  her.  Now  again  she 
wrote  to  speak  of  Neville's  filial  piety,  his  mother's  death, 
her  alleged  dishonour,  his  suffermgs  and  heroism ;  she  dilated 
on  this  subject  with  fond  approval,  and  expressed  her 
wishes  for  his  success  in  warm  and  eager  terms ;  for  many 
days  she  had  no  reply ;  a  letter  came  at  last— it  was  short. 
It  besought  her  instantly  to  return.  "  This  is  the  last  act 
of  duty,   of  affection,  I  shall  ever  ask,"  Falkner  wrote  : 


144  FALKNER. 

"comply  without  demurring,  come  at  once  ;  come,  and  hear 
the  fatal  secret  that  will  divide  us  for  ever.  Come  !  I  ask 
but  for  a  day ;  the  eternal  future  you  may,  you  will,  pass 
with  your  new  friends." 

Had  the  writing  not  been  firm  and  clear,  such  words  had 
seemed  to  portend  her  benefactor's  death ;  wondering, 
struck  by  fear,  inexpressibly  anxious  to  comply  with  his 
wishes,  pale  and  trembling,  she  besouglit  Lady  Cecil  to  ar- 
range for  her  instant  return.  Gerard  heard  with  sorrow, 
but  without  surprise ;  he  knew,  if  her  father  demanded  her 
presence,  her  first  act  would  be  obedience.  But  he  grieved 
to  see  her  suffer,  and  he  began  also  to  wonder  by  what 
strange  coincidence  th^y  should  both  be  doomed  to  sorrow, 
through  the  disasters  of  their  parents. 


CHAPTER  XXHI. 

Falkner  had  parted  with  his  dear  adopted  child  under  a 
strong  excitement  of  fear  concerning  her  health.  The 
change  of  air  and  scene  restored  her  so  speedily,  that  his 
anxieties  were  of  short  duration.  He  was,  however,  in  no 
hurry  to  rejoin  her,  as  he  was  taught  to  consider  a  tempo- 
rary separation  from  him  as  important  to  her  convales- 
cence. 

For  the  first  time,  after  many  years,  Falkner  was  alone. 
True,  he  was  so  in  Greece ;  but  there  he  had  an  object. 
In  Greece,  also,  it  is  true  that  he  had  dwelt  on  the  past, 
Avriting  even  a  narrative  of  his  actions,  and  that  remorse  sat 
heavy  at  his  heart,  while  he  pursued  this  task.  Yet  he 
went  to  Greece  to  assist  in  a  glorious  cause,  and  to  redeem 
his  name  from  the  obloquy  his  confession  would  throw  on 
it,  by  his  gallantly  and  death.  Tliere  was  something  ani- 
mating in  these  reflections.  Then  also  disease  had  not  at- 
tacked him,  nor  pain  made  him  its  prey — his  sensations 
were  healthful — and  if  his  reflections  were  melancholy  and 
self-condemning,  yet  they  were  attended  by  grandeur,  and 
even  by  sublimity,  the  result  of  the  danger  that  surrounded 
him,  and  the  courage  with  which  he  met  it. 

Now  he  was  left  alone — broken  in  health — dashed  in  spir- 
it ;  consenting  to  live — wishing  to  live  for  Elizabeth's  sake 
— yet  haunted  still  by  one  pale  ghost,  and  the  knowledge 
that  his  bosom  contained  a  secret  which,  if  divulged,  would 
acquire  for  him  universal  detestation.  He  did  not  fear  dis- 
covery ;  but  httle  do  they  know  the  human  heart  who  are 
not  aware  of  the  throes  of  shame  and  anguish  that  attend 
the  knowledge  that  we  are  in  reality  a  cheat,  tliat  we  dis- 


FALKNER.  145 

guise  our  own  real  selves,  and  that  truth  is  our  worst  ene- 
my. Left  to  himself,  Falkiier  thought  of  these  things  with 
bitterness;  he  loathed  the  burden  tliat  sat  upon  his  soul; 
he  longed  to  cast  it  otf;  yet,  when  he  thought  of  Ehzabeih  ; 
her  devoted  alTecliou  and  earnest  entreaties,  he  was  again 
a  coward  ;  how  could  he  consent  to  give  her  up,  and  plant 
a  dagger  in  her  heart ! 

There  was  but  one  cure  to  the  irritation  that  his  spirit 
endured,  which  was — to  take  refuge  in  her  society  ;  and  he 
was  about  to  join  her,  when  a  letter  came,  speaknig  of  Ge- 
rard Neville — the  same  wild  boy  they  had  seen  at  baden — 
the  kind  friend  of  Marseilles,  still  melancholy,  still  stricken 
by  adversity  ;  but  endowed  with  a  thousand  qualities  to  at- 
tract love  and  admiration  ;  full  of  sentiment  and  poetry — 
kind  and  tender  as  woman — resolute  and  independent  as  a 
man.  Elizabeth  said  little,  remembering  Falkner's  pre- 
vious restriction  upon  his  name — but  she  considered  it  her 
duty  to  mention  him  to  her  benefactor ;  and  that  being  her 
duty  to  him,  it  became  another  to  her  new  friend  to  assert 
his  excellence,  lest  by  some  chance  Falkner  had  mistaken, 
and  attributed  qualities  that  did  not  belong  to  him. 

Falkner's  thoughts  became  busy  on  this  with  new  ideas. 
It  was  at  once  pleasing  and  painful  to  hear  of  the  virtues 
of  Gerard  Neville.  The  pleasure  was  derived  from  the  bet- 
ter portion  of  human  nature — the  pain  from  the  worst ;  a 
lurking  envy,  and  dislike  to  excellence  derived  in  any  de- 
gree from  one  he  hated,  and  with  such  sentiment  he  regard- 
ed the  father  of  Gerard.  Still  he  was  the  sou  of  the  angel 
he  worshipped  and  had  destroyed  ;  she  had  loved  her  child 
to  adoration,  and  to  know  that  he  grew  up  all  she  would 
have  wished  would  console  her  wandering,  unappeased 
spirit.  He  remembered  his  likness  to  her,  and  that  soften- 
ed him  even  more.  Yet  he  thought  of  the  past — and  what 
he  had  done  ;  and  the  very  idea  of  her  son  lamenting  for 
ever  his  lost  mother  filled  him  with  renewed  and  racking 
remorse. 

That  Elizabeth  should  now  for  the  third  time  be  thrown 
in  his  way,  was  strange,  and  his  first  impulse  was  to  recall 
her.  It  was  well  that  Gerard  should  be  noble-minded,  en- 
dowed with  talent,  a  rare  and  exalted  being — but  that  she 
should  be  brought  into  near  contact  with  him  was  evil ;  be- 
tween Falkner  and  Gerard  Neville  there  existed  a  gulf  un- 
fathomable, horrific,  deadly ;  and  any  friendship  between 
him  and  his  adopted  child  must  cause  disunion  between 
her  and  Falkner.  He  had  suffered  much,  but  this  last 
blow,  a  cause  for  disuniting  them,  would  tax  his  furtitude 
too  much. 

Yet  thus  it  was  to  be  taxed.  He  received  a  letter  from 
Lady  Cecil,  of  which  Elizabeth  was  ignorant.  Its  ostensi- 
ble object  was  to  give  good  tidings  of  her  fair  guest's  health, 
13  Oi 


146  FALKNER. 

and  to  renew  her  invitation  to  him.  But  there  was  a  covert 
meaning  which  Falkner  detected.  Lady  Cecil,  though  too 
young  to  be  an  inveterate  matchmaker,  yet  conceived  and 
cherished  the  idea  of  the  marriage  of  Neville  and  Elizabeth. 
In  common  parlance,  Gerard  might  look  higher;  but  so  also 
might  Elizabeth,  apparently  the  only  daugliter  and  heir- 
ess of  a  man  of  good  birth  and  easy  fortune.  But  this 
went  for  little  with  Lady  Cecil ;  Gerard's  peculiar  disposi- 
tion— his  devotion  to  his  dead  mother — his  distaste  to  all  so- 
ciety— the  coldness  he  had  hitherto  manifested  to  feminine 
attractions,  made  the  choice  of  a  wife  difficult  for  him. 
Elizabeth's  heroic  and  congenial  character ;  her  total  inex- 
perience in  the  world,  and  readiness  to  sympathize  with 
sentiments  which,  to  the  ordinary  class  of  women,  would 
appear  extravagant  and  foolish ;  all  this  suited  theni  for 
each  other.  Lady  Cecil  saw  them  together,  and  felt  that 
intimacy  would  produce  love.  She  was  delighted  ;  but 
thinking  it  right  that  the  father  should  have  a  voice,  she 
wrote  10  Falkner,  scarcely  alluding  to  these  things,  but  with 
a  delicate  tad  that  enabled  her  to  convey  her  meaning,  and 
Falkner,  jumping  at  once  to  the  conclusion,  saw  that  his  child 
was  lost  to  him  for  ever. 

There  arose  from  this  idea  a  convulsion  of  feeling,  that 
shook  him  as  an  earthquake  shakes  the  firm  land,  making 
the  most  stable  edifices  totter.  A  chill  horror  ran  through 
his  veins,  a  cold  dew  broke  out  on  his  forehead ;  it  was  un- 
natural— it  was  fatal — it  must  bring  on  all  their  heads  ten-^ 
fold  ruin. 

Yet  wherefore  !  Elizabeth  was  no  child  of  his — Eliza- 
beth Falkner  could  never  wed  Gerard  Neville — but  between 
him  and  Elizabeth  Raby  there  existed  no  obstacle.  Nay, 
how  better  could  he  repay  the  injury  he  had  done  him  in 
depriving  him  of  his  mother,  than  by  bestowing  on  him  a 
creature,  perhaps  more  perfect,  to  be  his  solace  and  delight 
to  the  end  of  his  life  ?  So  must  it  be — here  Falkner's  pun- 
ishment would  begin ;  to  exile  himself  for  ever  from  her, 
Avho  was  the  child  of  his  heart,  the  prop  of  his  existence. 
It  was  dreadful  to  think  of,  but  it  must  be  done. 

And  how  was  the  sacrifice  to  be  fulfilled  1  by  restoring 
Elizabeth  to  her  father's  family,  and  then  withdrawing  him- 
self to  a  distant  land.  He  need  not  add  to  this  the  con- 
fession of  his  crime.  No  !  thus  should  he  compensate  to 
Gerard  for  the  injury  done  him ;  and  burning  his  papers, 
leaving  still  in  mystery  the  unknown  past,  die,  without  its 
ever  being  known  to  Elizabeth  that  he  was  the  cause  of 
her  husband's  sorrows.  It  was  travelling  fast,  to  arrange 
this  future  for  all  three ;  but  there  are  moments  v/hen  the 
future,  with  all  its  contingences  and  possibilities,  becomes 
glaringly  distinct  to  our  foreseeing  eye ;  and  we  act  as  if 
that  was,  which  we  believe  must  be.    He  would  become  a 


FALKNER.  147 

soldier  once  again — and  the  boon  of  death  would  not  be  for 
ever  denied  to  him. 

To  restore  Elizabeth  to  her  family  was  at  any  rate  but 
doing  her  a  long-withheld  justice.  The  child  of  honour  and 
faithful  affection — wiio  bore  a  proud  name — whose  loveli- 
ness of  persouand  mind  would  make  her  a  welcome  treas- 
ure in  any  family ;  she,  despite  her  generous  sacrifices, 
should  follow  his  broken  fortunes  no  longer.  If  the  notion 
of  her  marrying  Neville  were  a  mere  dream,  still  to  give 
back  to  her  name  and  'station,  was  a  benefit  which  it  was 
unjust  any  longer  to  withhold;  nor  should  it  be  a  question 
between  them.  They  were  now  divided,  so  shovild  they 
remain.  He  would  reveal  her  existence  to  her  family, 
claim  their  protection,  and  then  withdraw  himself;  while 
she,  occupied  by  a  new  and  engrossing  sentnnent,  would 
easily  get  reconciled  to  his  absence. 

The  first  step  he  took  in  furtherance  of  this  new  resolu- 
tion, was  to  make  inquiries  concerning  the  present  state  of 
Elizabeth's  family — of  which  hitherto  he  knew  no  more 
than  what  he  gathered  from  her  mother's  unfinished  letter, 
and  this  was  limited  to  their  being  a  wealthy  Catholic  fam- 
ily, proud  of  their  ancestry,  and  devoted  to  their  faith. 
Through  his  solicitor  he  gained  intelligence  of  their  exact 
situatitni.  He  heard  that  there  was  a  family  of  that  name 
in  Northumberland ;  it  was  Roman  Catholic,  and  exceed- 
ingly rich.  The  present  head  of  the  family  was  an  old 
man ;  he  had  long  been  a  widower ;  left  with  a  family  of 
six  sons.  The  eldest  had  married  early,  and  was  dead, 
leaving  his  widow  with  four  daughters  and  one  son,  yet  a 
child,  who  was  the  heir  of  the  family  honours  and  estates, 
and  resided  with  his  mother,  for  the  most  part,  at  the  man- 
sion of  his  grandfather.  Of  the  remaining  sons  little  ac- 
count could  be  gained.  It  was  the  family  custom  to  con- 
centrate all  its  prosperity  and  wealth  on  the  head  of  the 
elde>t  son ;  and  the  younger,  precluded  by  their  religion,  at 
that  time,  from  advancement  in  their  own  country,  entered 
foreign  service.  One  only  had  exempted  himself  from  the 
common  lot,  and  become  an  outcast,  and,  in  the  eyes  of  his 
family,  a  reprobate.  Edwin  Raby  had  apostatized  from  the 
Catholic  faith;  he  had  married  a  portionless  girl  of  inferior 
birth,  and  entered  the  profession  of  the  law.  His  parents 
looked  with  indignation  on  the  dishonour  entailed  on  their 
name  through  his  falling  off;  but  his  death  relieved  their 
terroi-s — he  died,  leaving  a  widow  and  an  infant  daughter. 
As  the  marriage  had  never  been  acknowledged,  and  female 
offspring  were  held  supernumerary,  and  an  encumbrance  in 
the  Raby  family,  they  had  refused  to  receive  her,  and  never 
heard  of  her  niore  ;  she  was,  it  was  conjectured,  hving  in 
obscurity  among  her  own  relations.  Falkner  at  once  de- 
tected the  truth.  The  despised,  deserted  widow  had  died 
G2 


148  FALKNER. 

ill  her  youth;  and  the  daughter  of  Edwin  Raby  was  the 
child  of  his  adoption.  On  this  information  Falkner  regu- 
lated his  conduct ;  and  finding  that  Ehzabeth's  grandfather, 
old  Osvvi  Raby,  resided  habitually  at  his  seat  in  the  north  of 
England,  he — his  health  now  restored  sufficiently  to  make 
the  journey  without  niconvenience — set  out  for  Northum- 
berland, to  communicate  the  existence,  and  claim  his  ac- 
knowledgment, of  his  granddaughter. 

There  are  periods  in  our  lives  when  we  seem  to  run 
away  from  ourselves  and  our  afflictions ;  to  commence  a 
new  course  of  existence,  upon  fresh  ground,  towards  a 
happier  goal.  Sometimes,  on  the  contrary,  the  stream  of 
life  doubles — runs  back  to  old  scenes,  and  we  are  con- 
strained to  linger  ainid  the  desolation  we  had  hoped  to 
leave  far  behind.  Thus  was  it  with  Falkner;  the  past 
clung  to  him  inextricably.  What  had  he  to  do  with  those 
who  had  suffered  through  his  misdeed  ?  He  had  fled  from 
them — he  had  traversed  a  quarter  of  the  earth — he  had 
placed  a  series  of  years  between  them ;  but  there  he  was 
again — in  the  same  spot — the  same  forms  before  him — the 
same  names  sounding  in  his  ears — the  effects  of  his  actions 
impending  darkly  and  portentously  over  him;  seeing  no 
escape  but  by  casting  away  the  onl)'  treasure  of  his  life — 
his  adopted  child — and  becoming  again  a  solitary,  miser- 
able wanderer. 

No  man  ever  suffered  more  keenly  than  Falkner  the 
stings  of  remorse ;  ijo  man  ever  resolved  more  firmly  to 
meet  the  consequences  of  his  actions  systematically,  and 
without  outward  flinching.  Tt  was  perseverance  to  one 
goal  that  had  occasioned  all  his  sin  and  wo;  it  followed 
him  in  his  repentance ;  and  though  miser^  set  a  visible 
mark  on  his  brow,  he  did  not  hesitate  nor  delay.  The  jour- 
ney to  Northumberland  was  long,  for  he  could  only  pro- 
ceed by  short  stages ;  and  all  the  time  miserable  reflection 
doubled  every  mile,  and  stretched  each  hour  into  twice  its 
duration.  He  was  alone.  To  look  back  was  wretched- 
ness— to  think  of  Elizabeth  was  no  solace ;  hereafter  they 
were  to  be  divided — hereafter  no  voice  of  love  or  gentle 
caress  would  chase  the  darkness  from  his  brow — he  was  to  . 
be  for  ever  alone. 

At  length  he  arrived  at  his  destination,  and  reached  the 
entrance  to  Belleforest.  The  mansion,  a  fine  old  Gothic 
building,  adorned  by  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  abbey,  was  in 
itself  venerable  and  extensive,  and  surrounded  by  a  princely 
demesne.  This  was  the  residence  of  Elizabeth's  ancestors 
—of  her  nearest  relations.  Here  her  childhood  would  have 
been  spent — under  these  venerable  oaks — within  these  an- 
cestral walls.  Falkner  was  glad  to  think  that,  in  being 
forced  to  withdraw  from  her  his  own  protection,  she  would 
take  a  higher  station,  and  in  the  world's  eye  become  more 


FALKNER.  149 

on  an  equality  with  Gerard  Neville.  Everything  around 
denoted  grandeur  and  wealth ;  the  very  circumstance  that 
the  family  adhered  to  the  ancient  faith  of  the  land— to  a 
form  uL  worship  which,  though  evil  in  its  effects  on  the 
human  mind,  is  to  the  eye  imposing  and  magnificent,  shed  a 
greater  lustre  round  the  place,  df  inquiry,  Falkner  heard 
that  the  old  gentleman  was  at  Belleforest;  indeed,  he  never 
quitted  it;  but  that  his  daughter-in-law,  with  her  family, 
were  in  the  south  of  England.  Mr.  Raby  was  very  acces- 
sible;  on  asking  for  him,  Falkner  was  instantly  ushered  in. 

He  entered  a  library  of  vast  dimeubions,  and  fitted  up 
with  a  sort  of  heavy  splendour ;  very  imposing,  but  very 
sombre.  The  high  windows,  painted  ceiling,  and  massy 
furniture  bespoke  an  oldfashioned,  but  almost  regal  taste. 
Falkner,  for  a  moment,  thought  himself  alone,  when  a  slight 
noise  attracted  his  attention  to  a  diminutive  and  very  white 
old  gentleman,  wlio  advanced  towards  him.  The  mansion 
looked  built  for  a  giant  race ;  and  Falkner,  expecting  the 
majesty  of  size,  could  hardly  contract  his  view  to  the  slen- 
der and  insignificant  figure  of  the  preseiit  possessor.  Oswi 
Raby  looked  shrivelled,  not  so  much  by  age  as  the  narrow- 
ness of  his  mind  ;  to  whose  dimensions  his  outward  figure 
had  contracted  itself.  His  face  was  pale  and  thin;  his  light 
bUie  eyes  grown  dim ;  you  miglit  have  thought  that  he  was 
drying  up  and  vanishing  from  the  earth  by  degrees.  Con- 
trasted with  this  slight  shadow  of  a  man,  was  a  mind  that 
saw  the  whole  world  almost  concentrated  in  iiimself.  He, 
Oswi  Raby,  he,  head  of  the  oldest  family  in  England,  was 
first  of  created  beings.  Without  being  assuming  in  manner, 
he  was  self-important  in  heart ;  and  there  was  an  obstinacy 
and  an  incapacity  to  understand  that  anything  was  of  con- 
sequence except  himself,  or  rather,  except  the  house  he  rep- 
resented, that  gave  extreme  repulsion  to  his  manners. 

It  is  always  awkward  to  disclose  an  errand  such  as  Falk- 
ner's  ;  it  was  only  by  plunging  at  once  into  it,  and  warming 
himself  by  his  own  words,  that  he  contrived  to  throw  grace 
rouiT^l  his  subject.  A  cloud  gathered  over  the  old  man's 
features  ;  he  grew  whiter,  and  his  thin  lips  closed,  as  if  they 
had  never  opened  except  with  a  refusal. 

"You  speak  of  very  painful  circumstances,"  he  said;  "I 
have  sometimes  feared  that  I  should  be  intruded  upon  in  be- 
half of  this  person ;  yet,  after  so  many  years,  there  is  less 
pretence  than  ever  for  encroaching  upon  an  injured  family. 
Edwin  himself  broke  the  tie.  He  was  rebellious  and  apos- 
tate. He  had  talents,  and  might  have  distinguished  himself 
to  his  honour ;  he  preferred  irreparable  disgrace.  He  aban- 
doned the  religion  which  we  consider  as  the  most  precious 
j)art  of  our  inheritance ;  and  he  added  imprudence  to  guilt, 
by,  he  being  himself  unprovided  for,  marrying  a  portionless, 
low-born  girl.  He  never  hoped  for  my  forgiveness;  he 
13* 


150  FALKNER. 

never  even  asked  it.  His  death — it  is  hard  for  a  father  to  feel 
thus — but  his  death  was  a  rehef.  We  were  applied  to  by 
his  widow ;  but  with  her  we  could  have  nothing  to  do.  She 
was  the  partner  of  his  rebellion — nay,  we  looked  upon  her 
as  its  primal  cause.  I  was  willing  to  take  charge  of  my 
grandchild,  if  delivered  entirely  up  to  me.  She  did  not 
even  think  proper  to  reply  to  the  letter  making  this  conces- 
sion. I  had,  indeed,  come  to  the  determination  of  continu- 
ing to  her  a  portion  of  the  allowance  I  made  to  my  son,  des- 
pite his  disobedience  ;  but  from  that  time  to  this  no  tidings 
of  either  mother  or  daughter  have  reached  us." 

"  Death  must  bear  the  blame  of  that  negligence,"  said 
Falkner,  mastering  his  rising  disgust.  "  Mrs.  Raby  was 
hurried  to  the  grave  but  a  few  months  after  your  son's 
death,  the  victim  of  her  devoted  affection  to  her  husband. 
Their  innocent  daughter  was  left  among  strangers,  who  did 
not  know  to  whom  to  apply.  She,  at  least,  is  free  from  all 
fault,  and  has  every  claim  on  her  father's  family.'' 

"  She  is  nothing,  and  has  no  claim,"  interrupted  Mr.  Raby, 
peevishly,  "  beyond  a  bare  maintenance,  even  if  she  be  the 
person  you  represent.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  you  may 
he  deceived  yourself  on  this  subject ;  but  taking  it  for  granted 
that  this  young  person  is  the  daughter  of  my  son,  what  is 
she  to  me  V 

"  A  granddaughter  is  a  relation,"  Falkner  began ;  "  a  near 
and  dear  one — " 

"  Under  such  circumstances,"  interrupted  Mr.  Raby, 
"under  the  circumstances  of  a  marriage  to  which  I  gave  no 
consent,  and  her  being  brought  up  at  a  distance  from  us  all, 
I  should  rather  call  her  a  connexion  than  a  relation.  We 
cannot  look  with  favour  on  the  child  of  an  apostate ;  edu- 
cated in  a  faith  which  we  consider  pernicious.  I  am  an 
oldfashioned  man,  accustomed  only  to  the  society  of  those 
whose  feelings  coincide  with  mine ;  and  I  must  apologize, 
sir,  if  I  say  anything  to  shock  you ;  but  the  truth  is  self-evi- 
dent, a  child  of  a  discarded  son  may  have  a  slender  claim 
for  support,  none  for  favour  or  countenance.  This  young 
person  has  no  right  to  raise  her  eyes  to  us;  she  must  regu- 
late her  expectations  by  the  condition  of  her  mother,  who 
was  a  sort  of  servant,  a  humble  companion  or  governess,  in 
the  house  of  Mrs.  Neville  of  Droniore  -" 

Falkner  grew  pale  at  the  name,  but,  commanding  himself, 
replie:5,  "  I  believe  she  was  a  friend  of  that  lady !  I  have 
said  I  was  unacquainted  with  the  parents  of  Miss  Raby;  I 
foilnd  her  an  orphan,  subsisting  on  precarious  charity.  Her 
few  years — her  forlorn  situation — her  beauty  and  sweetness, 
claimed  my  compassion — I  adopted  her — " 

"  And  would  now  throw  her  off,"  again  interrupted  the  ill- 
tempered  old  man.  "  Had  you  restored  her  to  us  in  her 
childhood — had  Rho  been  brought  wp  in  our  religion,  ajnong 


FALKNBR.  1$) 

US — she  would  have  shared  this  home  with  her  cousins.  As 
it  is,  you  must  yourself  be  aware  that  it  will  be  impossible 
to  admit,  as  an  inmate,  a  stranger — a  person  ignorant  of  our 
peculiar  systems — an  alien  from  our  religion.  Mrs.  Raby 
would  never  consent  to  it ;  and  I  would  on  no  account  an- 
noy her  who,  as  the  mother  and  guardian  of  my  heir,  mer- 
its every  deference.  1  will,  however,  consult  with  her,  and 
with  the  gentleman  who  has  the  conduct  of  my  affairs  ;  and 
as  you  wish  to  get  rid  of  an  embarrassment,  which,  pardon 
me  if  I  say  you  entirely  brought  on  yourself,  we  will  do 
what  we  judge  due  to  the  honour  of  the  family ;  but  I  can- 
not hold  out  any  hopes  beyond  a  maintenance — unless  this 
young  person,  whom  I  should  then  regard  as  my  grand- 
daughter, felt  a  vocation  for  a  religion,  out  of  whose  pale  I 
will  never  acknowledge  a  relation." 

At  every  word  Falkner  grew  more  angry.  He  always 
repressed  any  manifestation  of  passion,  and  only  grew  pale, 
and  spoke  in  a  lower,  calmer  voice.  There  was  a  pause ; 
he  glanced  at  the  white  hair  and  attenuated  form  of  the  old 
man,  so  to  acquire  a  sufficient  portion  of  forbearance,  and 
then  replied :  "  It  is  enough — forget  this  visit ;  you  shall 
never  hear  again  of  the  existence  of  your  outraged  grand- 
child. Could  you  for  a  moment  comprehend  her  worth, 
you  might  feel  regret  at  casting  from  you  one  whose  quali- 
ties render  her  the  admiration  of  all  who  know  her.  Some 
day,  when  the  infirmities  of  age  increase  upon  you,  you 
may  remember  that  you  might  have  had  a  being  near,  the 
most  compassionate  and  kind  that  breathes.  1  f  ever  you  feel 
the  want  of  an  aflectionate  hand  to  smooth  your  pillow,  you 
may  remember  that  you  have  shut  yom-  heart  to  one  who 
would  have  been  a  daily  blessing.  1  do  not  wish  to  disem- 
barrass myself  of  Miss  Raby — Miss  Falkner,  rather,  let  me 
call  her;  she  has  borne  my  name  as  my  daughter  for  many 
years,  and  shall  continue  to  retain  it,  together  with  my  pa- 
ternal guardianship,  while  I  live.  1  have  the  honour  to  wish 
you  a  good-morning." 

Falkner  hastily  departed ;  and,  as  he  threw  himself  on 
his  horse,  and  at  a  quick  pace  traversed  the  long  avenues 
of  Belleforest,  he  felt  that  boiling  of  the  blood,  that  inex- 
pressible bursting  and  tumult  of  the  heart,  that  accompanies 
fierce  indignation  and  disdain.  A  vehement  desire  to  pour 
out  the  cataract  of  his  contempt  and  anger  on  the  offender, 
was  mingled  with  redoubled  tenderness  for  Elizabeth,  with 
renewed  gratitude  for  all  he  owed  her,  and  a  yearning, 
heart-warming  desire  to  take  her  again  to  the  shelter  of  his 
love,  from  whence  she  should  never  more  depart.  ^ 


152  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


Falkner's  mind  had  undergone  a  total  change ;  he  had 
gone  to  Belleforest,  believing  it  to  be  his  duty  to  restore  to  its 
possessors  a  dearer  tr.  asure  than  any  held  by  them  ;  he  left 
it,  resolved  never  to  part  from  his  adopted  child.  "  Get  rid 
of  an  embarrassment!"  he  repeated  to  himself;  "get  rid  of 
Elizabeth,  of  tender  affection,  truth,  and  fidelity !  of  the 
heart's  fondest  ties,  my  soul's  only  solace !  How  often  has 
my  life  been  saved  and  cheered  by  her  only !  And  when  I 
would  saciifice  blessings  of  which  I  hold  myself  unworthy, 
1  hear  the  noblest  and  most  generous  being  in  the  world  de- 
graded by  the  vulgar,  sordid  prejudices  of  that  narrow- 
minded  bigot!  How  paltry  seems  the  pomp  of  wealth,  or 
the  majesty  of  these  ancient  woods,  when  it  is  recollected 
that  they  are  lorded  over  by  such  a  thing  as  that !" 

Falkner's  reflections  were  all  painful ;  his  heavily-bur- 
dened conscience  weighed  him  to  the  earth.  He  felt  that 
there  was  justice  in  a  part  of  Mr.  Raby's  representations ; 
that  if  Elizabeth  had  been  brought  up  under  his  care,  in  a 
religion  which,  because  it  was  persecuted,  was  the  more 
valuable  in  their  eyes;  participating  in  their  prejudices,  and 
endeared  to  them  by  habit,  she  would  have  had  claims, 
which,  as  she  was,  unseen,  unknown,  and  totally  disjoined 
from  them  in  opinions  and  feelings,  she  could  never  pos- 
sess. He  was  the  cause  of  this,  having,  in  her  infancy,  cho- 
sen to  take  her  to  himself,  to  link  his  desolate  fate  to  her 
brighter  one ;  and  now  he  could  only  repent  for  her  sake  ; 
yet,  for  her  sake,  he  did  repent,  when,  looking  forward,  he 
thought  of. the  growing  attachment  between  her  and  the  son 
of  his  victim. 

What  could  he  do  ?  recall  her?  forbid  her  again  to  see 
Gerard  Neville  1  Unexplained  commands  are  ever  unjust, 
and  had  any  strong  feeling  sprung  up  in  either  of  their 
hearts,  they  could  not  be  obeyed.  Should  he  tell  her  all, 
and  throw  himself  on  her  mercy  i  He  would  thus  inflict 
deep,  irreparable  pangs,  and,  besides,  place  her  in  a  painful 
situation,  where  duty  would  struggle  with  inclination  ;  and 
pride  and  affection  both  made  it  detestable  to  him  to  create 
such  a  combat  in  her  heart,  and  cause  her  to  feel  pangs  and 
make  sacrifices  for  him.  What  other  part  was  there  to 
take?  to  remain  neiUer  1  let  events  take  their  course  "?  If 
it  ended  as  he  foresaw,  when  a  marriage  was  mentioned, 
he  could  reveal  her  real  birth.  Married  to  Gerard  Neville, 
her  relations  would  gladly  acknowledge  her,  and  then  he 
could  withdraw  for  ever.     He  should  have  much  to  endure 


FALKNES.  159 

meanwhile  ;  to  hear  a  name  perpetually  repeated  that  thrilled 
to  the  very  marrow  of  his  bones ;  perhaps  to  see  the  hus- 
band and  son  of  her  he  had  destroyed  :  he  felt  sick  at  heart 
at  such  a  thought;  lie  put  it  aside.  It  was  not  to-day,  it 
could  not  be  to-morrow,  that  he  should  be  called  upon  to 
encounter  these  evils  ;  meanwhile,  he  would  shut  his  eyes 
upon  them. 

Returning  homeward,  he  felt  impelled  to  prolong  his  tour ; 
he  visited  some  of  the  lakes  of  Westmoreland,  and  the 
mountain  scenery  of  Derbyshire.  The  thought  of  return 
was  painful,  sn  he  lingered  on  the  way,  and  wrote  for  his 
letters  to  be  forwarded  to  him.  He  had  been  some  weeks 
without  receiving  any  from  Elizabeth,  and  he  felt  extreme 
impatience  again  to  be  blpssed  with  the  sight  of  her  handwri- 
ting— he  felt  how  passionately  he  loved  her — how  to  part 
from  her  was  to  part  from  every  joy  of  life  ;  he  called  him- 
self her  father — his  heart  acknowledged  the  tie  in  every 
pulsation  ;  no  father  ever  worshipped  a  child  so  fervently  ; 
her  voice,  her  smile — and  dear  loving  eyes,  where  were 
they ! — they  were  far,  but  here  was  something — a  little 
packet  of  letters,  that  must  for  the  present  stand  in  lieu  of 
the  dearer  blessing  of  her  presence.  He  looked  at  the 
papers  with  delight — he  pressed  them  to  his  lips— he  delayed 
to  open  them,  as  if  he  did  not  deserve  the  joy  they  would 
communicate — as  if  its  excess  would  overpower  him.  "  I 
purpose  parting  from  her,"  he  thought  ;  "  but  still  she  is 
mine,  mine  when  she  traced  those  lines — mine  as  I  read  the 
expressions  of  her  affection  ;  there  are  hours  of  delight  gar- 
nered for  me  in  those  little  sealed  talismans  that  nothing 
future  or  past  can  tarnish,  and  yet  the  name  of  Neville  will 
be  there  I"  The  thought  brought  a  cold  chill  wath  it,  and 
he  opened  the  letters  hastily  to  know  the  worst. 

Elizabeth  had  half  forgotten  the  pain  with  which  Falkner 
had  at  one  time  shrunk  from  a  name  become  so  dear  to 
her;  when  she  wrote,  her  heart  was  full  of  Gerard's  story 
— and,  besides,  she  had  had  letters  from  her  father  speaking 
of  him  with  kindness,  so  that  she  indulged  herself  by  allu- 
ding to  it — to  the  disappearance  of  his  mother  and  Gerard's 
misery;  the  trial — the  brutality  of  Sir  Boyvill ;  and  last,  to 
the  resolution  formed  in  childhood,  brooded  over  through 
youth,  now  acted  upon,  to  discover  his  mother's  destroyer. 
"  Nor  is  it,"  she  wrote,  "  any  vulgar  feeling  of  vengeance 
that  influences  him — but  the  purest  and  noblest  motives. 
She  is  stigmatized  as  unworthy — he  would  vindicate  her 
fame.  When  I  hear  the  surmises,  the  accusations  cast  on 
her,  I  feel  with  him.  To  hear  a  beloved  parent  accused  of 
'guilt,  must  indeed  be  the  most  bitter  wo;  to  believe  her  in- 
;  nocent,  and  to  prove  her  such,  the  only  alleviation.  God 
grant  that  he  may  succeed ! — and  though  I  wish  no  ill  to 
any  human  being,  yet  rather  may  the  height  of  evil  fall  on 
G  3 


154  FALKNER. 

the  head  of  the  true  criminal,  than  continue  to  cloud  the 
days  of  a  being  whose  soul  is  moulded  in  sensibility  and 
honour !" 

"  Thus  do  you  pray,  heedless  Elizabeth  !  May  the  true 
criminal  feel  the  height  of  evil ;  may  he — whom  you  have 
saved  from  death — endure  tortures  compared  to  which  a 
thousand  deaths  were  nothing!  Be  it  so!  you  shall  have 
your  wish  !" 

Impetuous  as  fire,  Falkner  did  not  pause :  something, 
some  emotion  devouring  as  fire,  wns  lighted  up  in  his  heart 
— there  must  be  no  delay ! — never  had  he  seen  the  effects 
of  his  crime  in  so  vivid  a  light ;  avoiding  the  name  of  Ne- 
ville, he  had  never  heard  that  of  his  victim  coupled  with 
shame — she  was  unfortunate,  but  he  persuaded  himself  that 
she  was  not  thought  guilty  ;  dear  injured  saint !  had  then 
her  sacred  name  been  bandied  about  by  the  vulgar — she 
pronounced  unworthy  by  the  judges  of  her  acts — ignominy 
heaped  upon  the  grave  he  had  dug  for  her?  Was  her  be- 
loved son  the  victim  of  his  belief  in  her  goodness?  Had 
his  youthful  life  been  blighted  by  his  cowardly  conceal- 
ments !  Oh,  rather  a  thousand  deaths  than  such  a  weight 
of  sin  upon  his  soul  !  He  would  declare  all;  offer  his  life 
in  expiation — what  more  could  be  demanded  ? 

And  again — this  might  be  thought  a  more  sordid  motive ; 
and  yet  it  was  not — Gerard  was  vowed  to  the  discovery  of 
the  true  criminal :  he  would  discover  him — earth  would 
render  up  her  secrets.  Heaven  lead  the  son  to  the  very 
point — by  slow  degrees  Jiis  crime  would  be  unveiled — Eliz- 
abeth called  upon  to  doubt  and  to  believe.  His  vehement 
disposition  was  not  calculated  to  bear  the  slow  process  of 
such  discoveries ;  he  would  meet  them,  avow  all — let  the 
worst  fall  on  him  :  it  was  happiness  to  know  and  feel  the 
\vorst. 

Lost  for  ever,  he  would  deliver  himself  up  to  reprobation 
and  the  punishment  of  his  guilt.  Too  long  he  had  delayed 
— now  all  his  motives  for  concealment  melted  away  like 
snow  overspread  by  volcanic  fire.  Fierce,  hurrying  destiny 
seized  him  by  the  hair  of  his  head — crying  aloud,  "  Murderer, 
offer  up  thy  blood — shade  of  Alithea,  take  thy  victim  !" 

He  wrote  instantly  to  Ehzabeth  to  meet  him  at  their 
home  at  Wimbledon,  and  proceeded  thither  himself.  Un- 
fortunately, the  tumult  of  his  thoughts  acted  on  his  health; 
after  he  had  proceeded  a  few  miles,  he  was  taken  ill — for 
three  days  he  was  confined  to  his  bed,  in  a  high  fever.  He 
thought  he  was  about  to  die — his  secret  untold.  Copious 
bleeding,  however,  subdued  the  violence  of  the  attack — and 
weak  and  faint,  he,  despite  his  physician's  advice,  proceed- 
ed homeward ;  weak  and  faint,  an  altered  man — life  had  no 
charms,  no  calls,  but  one  duty.  Hitherto  he  had  lived  in 
contempt  of  the  chain  of  eflfects  which  ever  links  pain  to 


FALKN£R.  155 

evil  and  of  the  Providence  wliich  will  not  let  the  innocent 
be  for  ever  traduced.  It  had  fallen  on  him ;  now  his  pun- 
ishment had  begun,  not  as  he,  in  i!ie  happier  vehemence  of 
passion,  had  determined,  not  by  sudden,  self-inflicted,  or 
glorious  death — but  the  slow  grinding  of  the  iron  wheels  of 
destiny,  as  they  passed  over  him,  crushing  him  in  the  dust. 

Yet  his  heart,  despite  its  sufferings,  warmed  with  some- 
thing like  pleasure  when,  after  a  tedious  journey  of  three 
days,  he  drew  near  his  home,  where  he  hoped  to  find  Eliza- 
beth. He  had  misgivings ;  he  had  asked  her  to  return,  but 
she  might  have  written  to  <?quest  a  delay — no !  she  was 
there ;  she  had  been  thei-e  two  days,  anxiously  expecting 
him.  It  is  so  sweet  a  thing  to  hear  the  voice  of  one  we< 
-love  welcoming  us  on  our  return  home  I  It  seems  to  as- 
sure us  of  a  double  existence  ;  not  only  in  our  own  identity 
— which  wc  bear  perpetually  about  with  us — but  in  the  heart 
we  leave  behind,  which  has  thought  of  us — lived  for  us,  and 
now  beats  with  warm  pleasure  on  beholding  the  expected 
one.  On  the  whole  earth  Falkner  loved  none  but  Elizabeth. 
He  hated  himself;  the  past — the  present — the  future,  as 
they  appertained  to  him,  were  all  detestable  ;  remorse,  grief, 
and  loathsome  anticipalion  made  up  the  sum  of  feelings 
with  which  he  regarded  them  :  but  here,  bright  and  beauti- 
ful; without  taint ;  all  affection  and  innocence — a  monument 
of  his  own  good  feelings,  a  lasting  rock  to  which  to  moor 
his  every  hope,  stood  before  him  the  child  of  his  adoption ; 
his  heart  felt  bursting  when  he  thought  of  all  she  was  to  him. 

Yet  a  doubt  entered  to  mar  his  satisfaction — was  she 
changed  ?  If  love  had  insinuated  itself  into  her  heart,  he 
was  rejected  ;  at  least  the  plenteous,  abundant  fountain,  that 
gave  from  its  own  source,  would  be  changed  to  the  still  waters 
that  neither  received  increase  nor  bestowed  any  overflow- 
ing. Worse  than  this — she  loved  Gerard  Neville,  the  sou 
of  his  victim,  he  whose  life  was  devastated  by  him,  who 
would  regard  him  with  abhorrence.  He  would  teach  Eliza- 
beth to  partake  this  feeling.  The  blood  stood  chilled  in 
Falkner's  heart  when  he  thought  of  thus  losing  the  only 
being  lie  loved  on  earth. 

He  mastered  these  feelings  when  he  saw  her.  The  first 
moment,  indeed,  when  she  flew  to  his  arms,  and  expressed 
with  eager  fondness  her  delight  in  seeing  him  again,  was 
all  happiness.  She  perceived  the  traces  of  suffering  on  his 
brow,  and  chided  herself  for  having  remained  away  so  long; 
she  promised  never  to  absent  herself  thus  again.  Every 
remembered  look  and  tone  of  her  dear  face  and  voice,  now 
brought  palpably  before  him,  was  a  medicine  to  Falkner. 
He  repressed  his  uneasiness,  he  banished  his  fears ;  for  a 
few  hours  he  made  happiness  his  own  again. 

The  evening  was  passed  in  calm  and  cheering  conversa- 
tion    No  word  was  said  of  the  friends  whom  Elizabeth  had 


156  falkneK. 

left.  She  had  forgotten  them,  during  the  first  few  hours 
she  spent  with  her  father ;  and  when  she  did  allude  to  her 
visit,  Falkner  said,  "  We  will  talk  of  these  things  to-mor- 
row; to-night  let  us  only  think  of  ourselves."  Elizabeth 
felt  a  little  mortified ;  the  past  weeks,  the  fortunes  of  her 
friends,  and  the  sentiments  they  excited,  had  become  a  part 
of  herself;  and  she  was  pained  that  so  much  of  disjunction 
existed  between  her  and  Falkner,  as  to  make  that  which 
was  so  vivid  and  present  to  her  vacant  of  interest  to  him  ; 
but  she  checked  her  disappointment:  soon  he  would  know 
her  new  friend,  sympathize  in  his  devotion  towards  his  in- 
jured mother,  enter  as  warmly  as  she  did  into  the  result  of 
his  endeavours  for  her  exculpation.  Meanwhile  she  yield- 
ed to  his  wish,  and  they  talked  of  scenes  and  countries  they 
had  visited  together,  and  all  the  feelings  and  opinions  en- 
gendered by  the  past ;  as  they  were  wont  to  do  in  days  gone 
by,  before  a  stranger  influence  had  disturbed  a  world  in 
which  they  lived  for  each  other  only — father  and  daughter 
— without  an  interest  beyond. 

Nothing  could  be  more  pure  and  entire  than  their  affection,  i 
and  there  was  between  them  that  mingling  of  hearts  Avhich/ 
words  cannot  describe ;  but  which,  whenever  it  is  experienced,) 
in  whatever  relation  in  life,  is  unalloyed  happiness.     There' 
was  a  total  absence  of  disguise,  of  covert  censure,  of  mutual 
diffidence ;  perfect  confidence  gave  rise  to  the  fearless  ut- 
terance of  every  idea,  and  there  was  a  repose,  and  yet  an 
enjoyment  in  the  sense  of  sympathy  and  truth,  which  filled 
and  satisfied.     Falkner  was  surprised  at  the  balmy  sense  of 
joy  that,  despite  everything,  stole  over  him  ;  and  he  kissed 
and  blessed  his  child,  as  she  retired  for  the  night,  with  more 
grateful  affection,  a  fuller  sense  of  her  merits,  and  a  more 
fervent  desire  of  preserving  her  always  near  him,  than  he; 
had  ever  before  been  conscious  of  experiencing  -   — 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Elizabeth  rose  on  the  following  morning,  her  bosom 
glowing  with  a  sensation  of  acknowledged  happiness.  So 
much  of  young  love  brooded  in  her  heart,  as  quickened  its 
pulsations,  as  gave  lightness  and  joy  to  her  thoughts.  She 
had  no  doubts,  nor  fears,  nor  even  hopes  :  she  was  not 
aware  that  love  was  the  real  cause  of  the  grateful  sense  of 
happiness,  with  which  she  avowed,  to  Heaven  and  herself, 
that  all  was  peace.  She  was  glad  to  be  reunited  to  Falkner, 
for  whom  she  felt  an  attachment  at  once  so  respectful,  and 
yet,  on  account  of  his  illness  and  melancholy,  so  watchfuF 


FALKNER.  157 

and  tender,  as  never  allowed  her  to  be  wholly  free  from 
solicitude  when  absent  from  him.  Also  she  expected  on 
that  morning  to  see  Gerard  Neville.  When  Falkner's  let- 
ter came  to  hasten  lier  departure  from  Oakly,  she  felt  grieved 
at  the  recall,  at  the  moment  when  she  was  expecting  him  to 
join  her,  so  to  fill  up  the  measure  of  her  enjoyments;  with 
all  this,  she  was  eager  to  obey,  and  anxious  to  be  with  him 
again.  Lady  Cecil  deputed  Miss  Jervis  to  accompany  her. 
On  the  very  morning  of  their  departure,  Neville  asked  for 
'  a  seat  in  the  carriage  ;  they  travelled  to  town  together ;  ^nd 
■when  they  separated,  Neville  told  her  of  his  intention  of 
immediately  securing  a  passage  to  America,  and  since  then 
had  written  a  note  to  mention  that  he  should  ride  over  to 
Wimbledon  on  that  morning. 

The  deep  interest  that  Elizabeth  took  in  his  enterprise 
made  her  solicitous  to  know  whether  he  had  procured  any 
further  information  ;  but  her  paramount  desire  was  to  intro- 
duce him  to  Falkner,  to  inspire  him  with  her  sentiments  of 
friendship,  and  to  see  two  persons  whom  she  considered 
superior  to  the  rest  of  the  world  bound  to  each  other  by  a 
mutual  attachment ;  she  wanted  to  impart  to  her  father  a 
pity  for  Alithea's  wrongs,  and  an  admiration  for  her  devoted 
son.  She  walked  in  the  shrubbery  before  breakfast,  enjoy- 
ing nature  with  the  enthusiasm  of  love  ;  she  gathered  the 
last  roses  of  the  departing  season,  and  mingling  them  with  a 
few  carnations,  hung,  with  a  new  sense  of  rapture,  over  these 
fairest  children  of  nature  ;  for  it  is  the  property  of  love  to  en- 
hance all  our  enjoyments,  "  to  paint  the  lily,  and  add  a  perfume 
to  the  rose."  When  she  returned  to  the  house,  she  was  told 
that  Falkner  still  slept,  and  begged  not  to  be  disturbed.  She 
breakfasted,  therefore,  by  herself,  sitting  by  the  open  case- 
ment, and  looking  on  the  waving  trees,  her  flowers  shed- 
ding a  sweet  atmosphere  aromid  ;  sometimes  turning  to  her 
open  book,  where  she  read  of 

"  The  heavenly  Una  with  her  milk-white  lamb," 

and  sometimes  leaning  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  in  one  of 
those  reveries  where  we  rather  feel  than  think,  and  every 
articulation  of  the  frame  thrills  with  a  living  bliss. 

The  quick  canter  of  a  horse,  the  stopping  at  the  gate,  the 
ringing  of  the  bell,  and  the  entrance  of  Neville,  made  her 
heart  beat  and  her  eyes  light  up  with  gladness.  He  entered 
with  a  lighter  step,  a  more  cheerful  and  animated  mien,  than 
visual.  He  was  aware  that  he  loved.  He  was  assured  that 
Elizabeth  was  the  being  selected  from  the  whole  world  who 
could  make  him  happy ;  while  he  regarded  her  with  all  the 
admiration,  the  worship,  due  to  her  virtues.  He  had  never 
loved  before.  The  gloom  that  absorbed  him,  the  shyness 
inspired  by  his  extreme  sensitiveness,  had  hitherto  made 
him  avoid  the  society  of  wonien ;  their  pleasures,  their  gay- 
14 


158  FALKNElt. 

ety,  their  light  airy  converse,  were  a  blank  to  hira  ;  it 
was  Elizabeth's  sufferings  that  first  led  him  to  remark  her : 
the  clearness  of  her  understanding,  her  simplicity,  t(ai- 
derness,  and  dignity  of  soul  won  him  ;  and,  lastly,  the  un- 
bounded, undisguised  sympathy  she  felt  for  his  endeavours, 
which  all  else  regarded  as  futile  and  insane,  riveted  him  to 
lier  indissohibly. 

Events  were  about  to  separate  them,  but  her  thoughts 
Avould  accompany  him  across  the  Atlantic — stand  suspended 
while  his  success  was  dubious,  and  hail  his  triumph  with  a 
joy  equal  to  his  own.  The  very  thought  gave  fresh  ardour 
to  his  desire  to  fulfil  his  task  ;  he  had  no  doubt  of  success, 
and,  though  the  idea  of  his  mother's  fate  was  still  a  cloud  in 
the  prospect,  it  only  mellowed,  without  defacing  the  glow- 
ing tints  shed  over  it  by  love. 

They  met  with  undisguised  pleasure  ;  he  sat  near  her,  and 
gazed  with  such  delight  as,  to  one  less  inexperienced  than 
Elizabeth,  would  have  at  once  betrayed  the  secret  of  his 
heart.  He  told  her  that  he  had  found  a  vessel  about  to  sail 
for  New- York,  and  that  he  had  engaged  a  passage  on  board. 
He  was  restless  and  uneasy,  he  feared  a  thousand  chances  ; 
he  felt  as  if  he  were  neglecting  his  most  sacred  duty  by  any 
delay ;  there  was  something  in  him  urging  him  on,  telling 
him  that  the  crisis  was  at  hand ;  and  yet,  that  any  neglect 
on  his  part  might  cause  the  moment  to  slip  by  for  ever. 
When  arrived  at  New- York,  he  should  proceed  with  all 
speed  to  Washington,  and  then,  if  Osborne  had  not  arrived, 
he  should  set  forward  to  meet  him.  So  much  might  inter- 
vene to  balk  his  hopes  !  Osborne  might  die,  and  his  secret 
die  with  him.  Every  moment's  delay  was  crime.  The 
vessel  was  to  drop  down  the  river  that  very  night,  and  to- 
morrow he  was  to  join  her  at  Sheerness.  He  had  come  to 
say  farewell. 

This  sudden  departure  led  to  a  thousand  topics  of  interest ; 
to  his  hopes — his  certainty  that  all  would  soon  be  revealed, 
and  he  rewarded  for  his  long  suffering.  Such  ideas  led  him 
to  speak  of  the  virtues  of  his  mother,  which  were  the 
foundation  of  his  hopes.  He  spoke  of  her  as  he  remem- 
bered her ;  he  described  her  watchful  tenderness,  her  play- 
ful but  well-regulated  treatment  of  himself.  Still  in  his 
dreams,  he  said,  he  sometimes  felt  pressed  in  her  arms,  and 
kissed  with  all  the  passionate  affection  of  her  maternal  heart ; 
in  such  sweet  visions  her  cry  of  agony  would  mingle ;  it 
seemed  the  last  shriek  of  wo  and  death.  "  Can  you  wonder," 
continued  Neville,  "  can  my  father,  can  Sophia  wonder,  that, 
recollecting  all  these  things,  I  will  not  bear  without  a  struggle 
that  my  mother's  name  should  be  clouded,  her  fate  encom- 
passed by  mystery  and  blame,  her  very  warm,  kind  feel- 
ings and  enchanting  sensibility  turned  into  accusations  against 
her  I    I  do  indeed  hope  and  believe  that  1  shall  learn  the  truth 


FALKNBfi.  159 

whither  I  am  going,  and  that  the  unfortunate  victim  of  law- 
less violence,  of  whom  Osborne  spoke,  is  my  lost  mother; 
but,  if  I  am  disappointed  in  this  expectation,  I  shall  not  for 
that  give  up  my  pursuit ;  it  will  only  whet  my  purpose  to 
seek  the  truth  elsewhere." 

"  And  that  truth  may  be  less  sad  than  you  anticipate," 
said  Elizabeth ;  "  yet  I  cannot  help  fearing  that  the  miserable 
tragedy  which  you  have  heard  is  connected  with  your 
mother's  fate." 

"  That  it  is  a  tragedy  may  well  dash  my  eagerness,"  re- 
plied Neville;  "for,  right  or  wrong,  I  cannot  help  feeling, 
that  to  see  her  again — to  console  her  for  her  sufferings — to 
show  that  she  is  remembered,  loved,  idolized  by  her  son, 
would  be  a  dearer  reward  to  me  than  triumph  over  the  bar- 
barous condemnation  of  the  world,  if  that  triumph  is  to  be 
purchased  by  having  lost  her  for  ever.  This  is  not  an  he- 
roic feeling,  I  confess — " 

"  If  it  be  heroism,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  to  find  our  chief  good 
in  serving  others  ;  if  compassion,  sympathy,  and  generosity 
be  gTcater  virtues,  as  I  believe,  than  cold  self-absorbed 
severity,  then  is  your  feeling  founded  on  the  purest  portion 
of  our  nature." 

While  they  were  thus  talking,  seated  near  each  other, 
Elizabeth's  face  beaming  with  celestial  benignity,  and  Ne- 
ville, in'  the  warmth  of  his  gratitude  for  her  approval,  had 
taken  her  hand  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  the  door  opened, 
and  Falkner  slowly  entered.  He  had  not  heard  of  the  ar- 
rival of  the  stranger ;  but  seeing  a  guest  with  Elizabeth,  he 
divined  in  a  moment  who  it  was.  The  thought  ran  through 
his  frame  like  an  ice-bolt — his  knees  trembled  under  him — 
cold  dew  gathercid  on  his  brow — for  a  moment  he  leaned 
against  the  doorway,  unable  to  support  himself;  while 
Elizabeth,  perceiving  his  entrance,  blushing,  she  knew  not 
why,  and  now  frightened  by  the  ghastly  pallor  of  his  face, 
started  up,  exclaiming,  "  My  father !     Are  you  ill  ?" 

Falkner  struggled  a  moment  longer,  and  then  recovered 
his  self-possession.  The  disordered  expression  of  his 
countenance  was  replaced  by  a  cold  and  stern  look,  which, 
aided  by  the  marble  paleness  that  settled  over  it,  looked 
more  like  the  chiselling  of  a  statue  than  mortal  endurance. 
A  lofty  resolve  to  bear  unflinchingly  was  the  spirit  that 
moulded  his  features  into  an  appearance  of  calm.  From 
this  moment  he  acquired  the  strength  of  body,  as  well  as 
of  mind,  to  meet  the  destiny  before  him.  The  energy  of 
his  soul  did  not  again  fail.  Every  instant— every  word, 
seemed  to  add  to  his  courage — to  nerve  him  to  the  utmost 
height  of  endurance ;  to  make  him  ready  to  leap,  without 
one  tremour,  into  the  abyss  which  he  had  so  long  and  so 
fearfully  avoided. 

The  likeness  of  Neville  to  his  mother  had  shaken  bim 


160  FALKNER. 

more  than  all.  His  voice,  whose  tones  were  the  same  with 
hers,  was  another  shock.  His  very  name  jarred  upon  his 
sense,  but  he  betrayed  no  token  of  suffering.  "  Mr.  Ne- 
ville," said  Elizabeth,  "  is  come  to  take  leave  of  me.  To- 
morrow he  sails  to  America." 

"  To  America !    Wherefore  ]"  asked  Falkner. 

"  I  wrote  to  you,"  she  replied ;  "  I  explained  the  motives 
of  this  voyage.     You  know — " 

"  I  know  all,"  said  Falkner ;  "  and  this  voyage  to  America 
is  superfluous." 

Neville  echoed  the  word  with  surprise,  while  Elizabeth 
exclaimed,  "  Do  you  think  so  1  You  must  have  good  rea- 
sons for  this  opinion.  Tell  them  to  Mr.  Neville.  Your 
counsels,  I  am  sure,  will  be  of  use  to  him.  I  have  often 
wished  that  you  had  been  with  us.  I  am  so  glad  that  he  sees 
you  before  he  goes — if  he  does  go.  You  say  his  voyage  is 
superfluous  ;  tell  him  wherefore  ;  advise  him.  Your  advice 
will,  I  am  sure,  be  good.  1  would  give  the  world  that  he 
did  the  exact  thing  that  is  best — that  is  most  likely  to  suc- 
ceed." 

Neville  looked  gratefully  at  her  as  she  spoke  thus  eagerly ; 
while  Falkner,  still  standing,  his  eyes  fixed  on  and  scan- 
ning the  person  of  the  son  of  his  victim,  marble  pale,  but 
displaying  feeling  by  no  other  outward  sign,  scarcely  heard 
what  she  said,  till  her  last  words  drew  his  attention.  He 
smiled,  as  in  scorn,  and  said,  "  Oh,  yes,  I  can  advise ;  and 
he  shall  succeed — and  he  v/ill  not  go." 

"  I  shall  be  happy,"  said  Neville,  with  surprise.  "  I  am 
willing  to  be  advised — that  is,  if  your  advice  coincides  with 
my  wishes." 

"  It  shall  do  so,"  interrupted  Falkner. 

*'  Then,"  exclaimed  Neville,  impetuously,  "  the  moments 
that  I  linger  here  will  appear  to  you  too  many.  You  will 
desire  that  I  should  be  on  board  already — already  under  sail — 
already  arrived.  You  will  wish  the  man  whom  I  seek  should 
be  waiting  on  the  sands  when  I  reach  the  shore !" 

"  He  is  much  nearer,"  said  Falkner,  calmly ;  "  he  is  be- 
fore you.     I  am  he  !" 

Neville  started  ;  "  You !  What  mean  you  1  You  are  not 
Osborne." 

"I  am  Rupert  Falkner;  your»mother's  destroyer." 

Neville  glanced  at  Elizabeth — his  eye  met  hers — their 
thought  was  the  same,  that  this  declaration  proceeded  from 
insanity.  The  fire  that  flashed  from  Falkner's  eyes  as  he 
spoke — the  sudden  crimson  that  died  his  cheeks — the  hol- 
low though  subdued  tone  of  his  voice,  gave  warrant  for 
such  a  suspicion. 

Elizabeth  gazed  on  him  with  painful  solicitude. 

"  1  will  not  stay  one  moment  longer,"  continued  Falkner, 
"  to  pain  you  by  the  sight  of  one  so  accursed  as  I.     You 


FALKNER.  16l 

will  hear  more  from  me  this  very  evening.  You  will  hear 
enough  to  arrest  your  voyage ;  and  remember  that  I  shall 
remain  ready  to  answer  any  call — to  make  any  reparation — 
any  atonement  you  may  require." 

He  was  gone — the  door  closed ;  it  was  as  if  a  dread 
spectre  had  vanished,  and  Neville  and  Elizabeth  looked  at 
each  other  to  read  in  the  face  of  either  whether  both  were 
conscious  of  having  been  visited  by  the  same  vision. 

"  What  does  he  mean  ]  Can  you  tell  me  what  to  think  1" 
cried  Neville,  almost  gasping  for  breath. 

"  I  will  tell  you  in  a  few  hours,"  said  Elizabeth.  "  I  must 
go  to  him  now;  I  fear  he  is  very  ill.  This  is  madness. 
When  your  mother  died,  Mr.  Neville,  my  father  and  I  were 
travelling  together  in  Russia  or  Poland.  I  remember  dates 
— I  am  sure  that  it  was  so.  This  is  too  dreadful.  Fare- 
well. You  sail  to-morrow — you  shall  hear  from  me  to- 
aight." 

"  Be  sure  that  I  do,"  said  Neville ;  "  for  there  is  a  method 
in  his  speech — a  dignity  and  a  composure  in  his  maimer, 
that  enforces  a  sort  of  belief.     What  can  he  mean  ]" 

"  Do  you  imagine,"  cried  Elizabeth,  "  that  there  is  any 
truth  in  these  unhappy  ravings !  That  my  father,  who 
would  not  tread  upon  a  worm — whose  compassionate  dis- 
position and  disinterestedness  have  been  known  to  me 
since  early  childhood — the  noblest  and  yet  the  gentlest  of 
human  beings — do  you  imagine  that  he  is  a  murderer? 
Dear  Mr.  Neville,  he  never  could  have  seen  your  mother !" 

"  Is  it  indeed  so  !"  said  Neville  ;  "  yet  he  said  one  word- 
did  you  not  remark  1 — he  called  himself  Rupert.  But  I  will 
not  distress  you.  You  will  write ;  or  rather,  as  my  time 
will  be  occupied  in  preparations  for  my  voyage,  and  I 
scarcely  know  where  the  day  will  be  spent,  1  will  call  here 
this  evening  at  nine.  If  you  cannot  see  me,  send  me  a 
note  to  the  gate,  containing  some  information,  either  to  ex- 
pedite or  delay  my  journey.  Even  if  this  strange  scene  be 
the  work  of  insanity,  how  can  I  leave  you  in  distress  ?  and 
if  it  be  true  what  he  says — if  he  be  the  man  I  saw  tear  my 
mother  from  me — how  altered — how  turned  to  age  and  de- 
crepitude !  Yet,  if  he  be  that  man,  then  I  have  a  new  and 
horrible  course  to  take." 

"  Is  it  so  ?"  cried  Elizabeth,  with  indignation ;  "  and  can  a 
man  so  cloud  his  fair  fame,  so  destroy  his  very  existence, 
by  the  wild  words  of  delirium,  that  my  dear  father  should 
be  accused  of  being  the  most  odious  criminal  V 

"  Nay,"  rephed  Neville,  "  I  make  no  accusation.  Do  not 
part  from  me  in  anger.  You  are  right,  I  do  not  doubt ;  and 
I  am  unjust.     I  will  call  to-night." 

"  Do  so  without  fail.  Do  not  lose  your  passage.  1  little 
knew  that  personal  feeling  would  add  to  my  eagerness  to 
learn  the  truth.  Do  not  slay  for  my  sake.  Come  to-night 
U* 


162  FALKNER. 

and  learn  how  false  and  wild  my  father's  words  were ;  and 
then  hasten  to  depart — to  see  Osborne — to  learn  all !  Fare- 
well till  this  evening." 

She  hurried  away  to  Falkner's  room,  while  stunned — 
doubting — forced,  by  EUzabeth,  to  entertain  doubts,  and  yet 
convinced  in  his  heart ;  for  the  name  of  Rupert  brouglit 
conviction  home — Neville  left  the  house.  He  had  entered 
it  fostering  the  sweetest  dreams  of  happiness,  and  now  he 
dared  not  look  at  the  reverse. 

Elizabeth,  filled  with  the  most  poignant  inquietude  with 
regard  to  his  health,  hastened  to  the  sitting-room  which 
Falkner  usually  occupied.  She  found  him  sealed  at  the  ta- 
ble, with  a  small  box — a  box  she  well  remembered — open 
before  him.  He  was  looking  over  the  papers  it  contained. 
His  manner  was  perfectly  composed — the  natural  hue  had 
returned  to  his  cheeks — his  look  was  sedate.  He  was,  in- 
deed, very  different  from  the  man  who,  thirteen  years  be- 
fore, had  landed  in  Cornwall.  He  was  then  in  the  prime  of 
life ;  and  if  passion  defaced  his  features,  still  youth,  and 
health,  and  power  animated  his  frame.  Long  years  of  grief 
and  remorse,  with  sickness  superadded,  had  made  him  old 
before  his  time.  The  hair  had  receded  from  the  temples, 
and  what  remained  was  sprinkled  with  gray ;  his  figure  was 
bent  and  attenuated  ;  his  face  careworn ;  yet,  at  this  mo- 
ment, he  had  regained  a  portion  of  his  former  self.  There 
was  an  expression  on  his  face  of  satisfaction,  almost  of  tri- 
umph ;  and,  when  he  saw  Elizabeth,  the  old,  sweet  smile 
she  knew  and  loved  so  well  lighted  up  his  countenance. 
He  held  out  his  hand  ;  she  took  it.  There  was  no  fever  in 
the  palm — his  pulse  was  equable  ;  and  when  he  spoke  his 
voice  did  not  falter.  He  said,  "  This  blow  has  fallen  heav- 
ily on  you,  my  dear  girl ;  yet  all  will  be  well  soon,  I  trust. 
Meanwhile  it  cannot  be  quite  unexpected." 

Elizabeth  looked  her  astonishment — he  continued  : — 
"  You  have  long  known  that  a  heavy  crime  weighs  on  my 
conscience.  It  renders  me  unfit  to  live ;  yet,  I  have  not 
been  permitted  to  die.  I  sought  death — but  we  are  seldom 
allowed  to  direct  our  fate.  I  do  not,  however,  complain;  I 
am  well  content  with  the  end  which  will  speedily  termi- 
nate all." 

"  My  dearest  father,"  cried  Elizabeth,  "  I  cannot  guess 
what  you  mean.  I  thought — but  no — you  are  not  iU — you 
are  not — " 

"  Not  mad,  dearest  ■!  was  that  your  thought  1  It  is  a  mad- 
ness, at  least,  that  has  lasted  long — since  first  you  stayed 
my  hand  on  your  mother's  grave.  You  are  too  good,  too 
affectionate  to  regret  having  saved  me,  even  when  you 
hear  A^ho  I  am.  You  are  too  resigned  to  Providence  not 
to  acquiesce  in  the  way  chosen  to  bring  all  things  to  their 
destined  end." 


FALKNER.  163 

Elizabeth  put  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissed  him. 
"  Thank  you,"  said  Falkner,  "  and  God  bless  you  for  this 
kindness.  I  shall  indeed  be  glad  if  you,  from  your  heart, 
pardon  and  excuse  me.  Meanwhile,  my  love,  there  is  some- 
thing to  be  done.  These  papers  contain  an  accoimt  of  the 
miserable  past ;  you  must  read  them,  and  then  let  Mr.  Ne- 
ville have  them  without  delay." 

"  Nay,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  spare  me  this  one  thing — do  not 
ask  me  to  read  the  history  of  any  one  ei-ror  of  yours.  In 
my  eyes  you  must  ever  be  the  first  and  best  of  human  be- 
ings— if  it  has  ever  been  otherwise,  I  will  not  hear  of  it. 
You  shall  never  be  accused  of  guilt  before  me,  even  by 
yourself." 

"  Call  it,  then,  my  justification,"  said  Falkner.  "  But  do 
not  refuse  my  request — it  is  necessaiy.  If  it  be  pain,  par- 
don me  for  inflicting  it ;  but  bear  it  for  my  sake — I  wrote 
this  narrative  when  I  believed  myself  about  to  die  in 
Greece,  for  the  chief  purpose  of  disclosing  the  truth  to  you. 
I  have  told  my  story  truly  and  simply ;  you  can  have  it 
from  no  one  else,  for  no  human  being  breathes  who  knows 
the  truth  except  myself.  Yield,  then — you  have  ever  been 
yielding  to  me — yield,  I  beseech  you,  to  my  solemn  request ; 
do  not  shrink  from  hearing  of  my  crimes — I  hope  soon  to 
atone  them.  And  then  perform  one  other  duty  :  send  these 
papers  to  your  friend — you  know  where  he  is." 

"  He  will  call  here  this  evening  at  nine." 

"  By  that  time  you  will  have  finished ;  I  am  going  to 
town  now,  but  shall  return  to-night.  Mr.  Neville  will  be 
come  and  gone  before  then,  and  you  will  know  all.  I  do 
not  doubt  but  that  you  will  pity  me — such  is  your  generos- 
ity, that  perhaps  you  may  love  me  still — but  you  will  be 
shocked  and  wretched,  and  I  the  cause.  Alas  !  how  many 
weapons  do  our  errors  wield,  and  how  surely  does  retribu- 
tion aim  at  our  defenceless  side !  To  know  that  I  am  the 
cause  of  unhappiness  to  you,  my  sweet  girl,  inflicts  a  pang 
I  cannot  endure  with  any  fortitude.  But  there  is  a  remedy, 
and  all  will  be  well  in  the  end." 

Elizabeth  hung  over  him  as  he  spoke,  and  he  felt  a  tear 
warm  on  his  cheek,  fallen  from  her  eye — he  was  subdued 
by  this  testimony  of  her  sympathy — he  strained  her  to  his 
heart ;  but,  in  a  moment  after,  he  reassumed  his  self-com- 
mand, and,  kissing  her,  bade  her  fareweU,  and  then  left  her 
to  the  task  of  sori'ow  he  had  assigned. 

She  knew  not  what  to  think,  what  image  to  conjure  up. 
His  words  were  free  from  all  incoherence;  before  her,  also, 
were  the  papers  that  would  tell  all — she  turned  from  them 
with  disgust ;  and  then  again  she  thought  of  Neville,  his  de- 
parture, his  promised  return,  and  what  she  could  say  to  him. 
It  was  a  hideous  dream,  but  there  was  no  awakening ;  she 
sat  down,  sl^e  took  out  the  papers ;  the  number  of  pages 


164  FALKNER. 

written  in  her  father's  hand  seemed  a  reprieve ;  she  should 
not  hear  all  the  dreadful  truth  in  a  few  short,  piercing  words 
— there  was  preparation.  For  a  moment  she  paused  to 
gather  her  tlioughts — to  pray  for  fortitude — to  hope  that  the 
worst  was  not  there,  but,  in  its  stead,  some  venial  error  that 
looked  like  crime  to  his  sensitive  mind ;  and  then — she  be- 
gan to  read. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

FALKNER's   NARRAtlVlii 

"  To  palliate  crime,  and,  by  investigating  motive,  to  ren- 
der guilt  less  odious — such  is  not  the  feeling  that  rules  my 
pen  ;  to  confer  honour  upon  innocence,  to  vin(^icate  virtue, 
^nd  announce  truth — though  that  offer  my  own  name  as  a 
mark  for  deserved  infamy — such  are  my  motives.  And  if  I 
reveal  the  secrets  of  my  heart,  and  dwell  on  the  circum- 
stances that  led  to  the  fatal  catastrophe  I  record,  so  that, 
though  a  criminal,  I  do  not  appear  quite  a  monster,  let  the 
egotism  be  excused  for  her  dear  sake — within  whose  young 
and  gentle  heart  I  would  fain  that  my  memory  should  be 
enshrined  without  horror,  though  with  blame. 

"  The  truth,  the  pure  and  sacred  truth,  will  alone  find  ex- 
pression in  these  pages.  I  write  them  in  a  land  of  beauty, 
but  of  desolation — in  a  country  whose  inhabitants  are  pur- 
chasing by  blood  and  misery  the  dearest  privileges  of  hu- 
man nature — where  I  have  come  to  die !  It  is  night ;  the 
cooing  aziolo,  the  hooting  owl,  the  flashing  fire-fly,  the  mur- 
mur of  time-honoured  streams,  the  moonlit  foliage  of  the 
gray  olive  woods,  dark  crags,  and  rugged  mountains,  throAV- 
ing  awful  shadows,  and  the  light  of  the  eternal  stars — such 
are  the  objects  around  me.  Can  a  man  speak  false  in  the 
silence  of  night,  when  God  and  his  own  heart  alone  keep 
watch!  when  conscience  hears  the  moaning  of  the  dead  in 
the  pauses  of  the  breeze,  and  sees  one  pale,  lifeless  figure 
float  away  on  the  current  of  the  stream !  My  heart  whis- 
pers that  before  such  witnesses  the  truth  will  be  truly  re- 
corded ;  and  my  blood  curdles,  and  my  nerves,  so  firm  amid 
the  din  of  battle,  shrink  and  shudder  at  the  tale  I  am  about 
to  narrate. 

"  What  is  crime  1 

"  A  deed  done  injurious  to  others — forbidden  by  religion, 
condemned  by  morality,  and  which  human  laws  are  enacted 
to  punish. 

-''  A  criminal  feels  all  mankind  to  be  his  foes,  the  whole 


FALKNER.  165 

frame  of  society  is  erected  for  his  especial  ruin.  Before  he 
had  a  right  to  choose  his  habitation  in  the  land  of  his  fore- 
fathers— and,  placing  the  sacred  name  of  liberty  between 
himself  and  power,  none  dared  check  his  freeborn  steps — 
his  will  was  his  law  ;  the  limits  of  his  physical  strength  were 
the  only  barriers  to  his  wildest  wanderings — he  could  walk 
erect  and  fear  the  eye  of  no  man.  He  who  commits  a  crime 
forfeits  these  privileges.  Men  from  out  the  lowest  grade 
of  society  can  say  to  him,  '  You  must  come  with  us  !' — they 
can  drag  him  from  those  he  loves,  immure  him  in  a  loath- 
some cell,  dole  out  scant  portions  of  the  unchartered  air, 
make  a  show  of  him,  lead  him  to  death,  and  throw  his  body 
to  the  dogs ;  and  society,  which  for  the  innocent  would 
have  raised  one  cry  of  horror  against  the  perpetrators  of 
such  outrages,  look  on  and  clap  their  hands  with  applause. 

"  This  is  a  vulgar  aspect  of  the  misery  of  which  I  speak 
— a  crime  may  never  be  discovered.  Mine  lies  buried  ia 
my  own  breast.  Years  have  passed,  and  none  point  at  me 
and  whisper,  '  There  goes  the  murderer !'  But  do  I  not  feel 
that  God  is  my  enemy,  and  my  own  heart  whispers  con- 
demnation 1  I  know  that  I  am  an  impostor — that  any  day 
may  discover  the  truth ;  but  more  heavy  than  any  fear  of 
detection  is  the  secret  hidden  in  my  own  heart ;  the  icy 
touch  of  the  death  1  caused  creeps  over  me  during  the  night. 
I  am  pursued  by  the  knowledge  that  naught  I  do  can  pros- 
per, for  the  cry  of  innocence  is  raised  against  me,  and  the 
earth  groans  with  the  secret  burden  I  have  committed  to 
her  bosom.  That  the  death-blow  was  not  actually  dealt  by 
my  hand  in  no  manner  mitigates  the  stings  of  conscience. 
My  act  was  the  murderer,  though  my  intention  was  guilt- 
less of  death. 

"  Is  there  a  man  who  at  some  time  has  not  desired  to 
possess,  by  illegal  means,  a  portion  of  another's  property, 
or  to  obey  the  dictates  of  an  animal  instinct,  and  plant  his 
foot  on  the  neck  of  his  enemy  1  Few  are  so  cold  of  blood 
or  temperate  of  mood  as  not,  at  some  one  time,  to  have  felt 
hurried  beyond  the  demarcations  set  up  by  conscience  and 
law ;  few  but  have  been  tempted  without  the  brink  of  the 
forbidden ;  but  they  stopped,  while  I  leaped  beyond — there 
is  the  difference  between  us.  Falsely  do  they  say  who  al- 
lege that  there  is  no  difference  in  guilt  between  the  thought 
and  act ;  to  be  tempted  is  human ;  to  resist  temptation — 
surely,  if  framed  like  me,  such  is  to  raise  us  from  our  hu- 
manity into  the  sphere  of  angels. 

"  Many  are  the  checks  afforded  us.  Some  are  possessed 
by  fear;  others  are  endowed  by  a  sensibility  so  prophetic 
of  the  evil  that  must  ensue,  that  perforce  they  cannot  act 
the  thing  they  desire  ;  they  tremble  at  the  idea  of  being  the 
cause  of  events  over  whose  future  course  they  can  have  no 
control ;  they  fear  injuring  others — and  their  own  remorse. 


166  PALKNER. 

"  But  I  disdained  all  these  considerations — they  occurred 
but  faintly  and  ineffectually  to  my  mind.  Piety,  conscience, 
and  moral  respect  yielded  before  a  feeling  which  decked  its 
desires  in  the  garb  of  necessity.  Oh,  how  vain  it  is  to  an- 
alyze motive  I  Each  man  has  the  same  motives ;  but  it  is 
the  materials  of  each  mind — the  plastic  or  rocky  nature,  the 
mild  or  the  burning  temperament — that  rejects  the  alien  in- 
fluence, or  receives  it  into  its  own  essence  and  causes  the 
act.  Such  an  impulse  is  as  a  summer  healthy  breeze  just 
dimpling  a  still  lake  to  one — while  to  another  it  is  the  whirl- 
wind that  rouses  him  to  spread  ruin  around. 

"  The  Almighty  who  framed  my  miserable  being  made 
me  a  man  of  passion.  They  say  that  of  such  are  formed 
the  great  and  good.  I  know  not  that — I  am  neither ;  but  I 
will  not  arraign  the  Creator.  I  will  hope  that  in  feeling 
my  guilt — ^in  acknowledging  the  superexcellence  of  virtue, 
I  fulfil,  in  part,  hi«  design.  After  me,  let  no  man  doubt  but 
that  to  do  what  is  right  is  to  ensure  his  own  happiness ;  or 
that  self-restraint,  and  submission  to  the  voice  of  conscience; 
implanted  in  our  souls,  impart  more  dignity  of  feeling,  more 
true  majesty  of  being,  tlian  a  peurile  assertion  of  will  and 
a  senseless  disregard  of  immutable  principles. 

^'  Is  passion  known  in  these  days  ?  Such  as  I  felt,  has 
any  other  experienced  it?  The  expression  has  fled  from 
our  lips ;  but  it  is  as  deep-seated  as  ever  in  our  hearts. 
Who,  of  created  beings,  has  not  loved  ?  Who,  of  my  sex, 
has  not  felt  the  struggle,  and  the  yielding  in  the  struggle,  of 
the  better  to  the  worse  parts  of  our  nature  !  Who  so  dead 
to  nature's  influence  as  not,  at  least  for  some  brief  moments, 
to  have  felt  that  body  and  soul  were  a  slight  sacrifice  to  ob- 
tain possession  of  the  affections  of  her  he  loved?  Who, 
for  some  moments  in  his  life,  would  not  have  seen  his  mis- 
tress dead  at  his  feet  rather  than  wedded  to  another  1  To  feel 
this  tyranny  of  passion  is  to  be  human  ;  to  conquer  it  is  to 
be  virtuous.  He  who  conquers  himself  is,  in  my  eyes,  the 
only  true  hero.  Alas,  I  am  not  such  !  I  am  among  the 
vanquished,  and  view  the  wreteh  I  am,  and  learn  that  there 
is  nothing  so  contemptible,  so  pitiable,  so  eternally  misera- 
ble, as  he  who  is  defeated  in  his  conflict  with  passion. 

*'  That  I  am  such,  this  veiy  scene— this  very  occupation 
testifies.  Once  the  slave  of  headlong  impulse,  I  am  now 
the  victim  of  remorse.  I  am  come  to  seek  death,  because 
I  cannot  retrieve  the  past ;  I  long  for  the  moment  when  the 
bullet  shall  pierce  my  flesh,  and  the  pains  of  dissolution 
gather  round  me.  Then  I  may  hope  to  be,  that  for  which  I 
thirst,  free  *  There  is  one  who  loves  me.  She  is  pure  and 
kind  as  a  guardian  angel- — she  is  as  my  own  child — she  im- 
plores me  to  live.  With  her  my  days  might  pass  in  a 
peace  and  innocence  that  saints  might  envy ;  but  so  heavy 


FALKNEK.  167 

are  the  fetter?  of  memory,  so  bitter  the  slavery  of  my  soul, 
Xhat  even  slie  cannot  take  away  the  sting  from  hfe. 

"  Death  is  all  I  covet.  When  these  pages  are  read,  the 
hand  that  traces  them  will  be  powerless — the  brain  that  dic- 
tates will  have  lost  its  functions.  This  is  my  last  labour — 
my  legacy  to  my  fellow-beings.  Do  not  let  them  disdain 
the  outpourings  of  a  heart  which  for  years  has  buried  its 
recollections  and  remorse  in  silence.  The  waters  were 
pent  up  by  a  dam — now  they  rush  impetuously  forth — they 
roar  as  if  pursued  by  a  thousand  torrents — their  turmoil 
deafens  heaven ;  and  what  though  their  sound  be  only  con- 
veyed by  the  little  implement  that  traces  these  lines — not 
less  headlong  than  the  swelling  waves  is  the  spirit  that 
pours  itself  out  in  these  words. 

"  I  am  calmer  now — I  have  been  wandering  beside  the 
stream — and,  despite  the  lurking  foe  and  deceptive  moon- 
beams, I  have  ascended  the  steep  mountain's  side — and 
looked  out  on  the  misty  sea,  and  sought  to  gain  from  repo- 
sing nature  some  relief  to  my  sense  of  pain.  The  hour  of 
midnight  is  at  hand — all  is  still — I  am  calm,  and  with  delib- 
eration begin  to  narrate  that  train  of  circumstances,  or 
rather  of  feelings,  that  hurried  me  first  to  error,  then  to 
crime,  and,  lastly,  brought  me  here  to  die. 

"  I  lost  my  mother  before  I  can  well  remember.  I  have 
a  confused  recollection  of  her  crying — and  of  her  caressing 
me — and  I  can  call  to  mind  seeing  her  ill  in  bed,  and  her 
blessing  me  ;  but  these  ideas  are  rather  like  revelations  of 
an  ante-natal  life,  than  belonging  to  reality.  She  died  when 
I  was  four  years  old.  ]My  childhood's  years  were  stormy 
and  drear.  My  father,  a  social,  and,  I  believe,  even  a  polite 
man  in  society,  was  rough  and  ill-tempered  at  home.  He 
had  gambled  away  his  own  slender  younger  brother's  for- 
tune and  his  wife's  portion,  and  was  too  idle  to  attend  to  a 
profession,  and  yet  not  indolent  enough  for  a  life  devoid  of 
purpose  and  pursuit.  Our  family  was  a  good  one  ;  it  con- 
sisted of  two  brothers,  my  father,  and  my  uncle.  This  lat- 
ter, favoured  of  birth  and  fortune,  remained  long  unmarried; 
and  was  in  weak  health.  My  father  expected  him  to  die. 
His  death,  and  his  own  consequent  inheritance  of  the  family 
estate,  was  his  constant  theme ;  but  the  delayed  hope  irri- 
tated him  to  madness.  I  knew  his  humour  even  as  a  child, 
and  escaped  it  as  I  could.  His  voice,  calling  my  name, 
made  my  blood  run  cold  ;  his  epithets  of  abuse,  so  fre- 
quently applied,  filled  me  with  boiling  but  ineffectual  rage. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  dwell  on  those  painful  days  when,  a 
weak,  tiny  boy,  I  felt  as  if  I  could  contend  with  the  pater- 
nal giant ;  and  did  contend,  till  his  hand  felled  me  to  the 
ground,  or  cast  me  from  his  threshold  with  scorn  and  seem- 
ing hate.  I  dare  say  he  did  not  hate  me ;  but  certainly  uo 
touch  of  natural  love  warmed  his  heart. 


168  FALKNER. 

"  One  day  he  received  a  letter  from  his  brother — I  was 
but  ten  years  old,  but  rendered  old  and  care-worn  by  suffer- 
ing ;  1  remember  that  I  looked  on  him  as  he  took  it  and  ex- 
claimed, '  From  Uncle  John!  What  have  we  here  V  with 
a  nervous  tremour  as  to  the  passions  the  perusal  of  it  might 
excite.  He  chuckled  as  he  broke  the  seal — he  fancied  that 
he  called  him  to  his  dying  bed — '  And  that  well  over,  you 
shall  go  to  school,  my  fine  fellow,'  he  cried;  'we  shall  have 
no  more  of  your  tricks  at  home.'  He  broke  the  seal,  he 
read  the  letter.  It  announced  his  brother's  marriage,  and 
asked  him  to  the  wedding.  I  let  fall  the  curtain  over  the 
scene  that  ensued  :  you  would  have  thought  that  a  villanous 
fraud  had  been  committed,  in  which  1  was  implicated.  He 
drove  me  with  blows  from  his  door ;  I  foamed  with  rage, 
and  then  I  sat  down  and  wept,  and  crept  away  to  the  fields, 
and  wondered  why  I  was  born,  and  longed  to  kill  my  uncle, 
who  was  the  cause  to  me  of  so  much  misery. 

"  Everything  changed  for  the  worse  now.  Hitherto  my 
father  had  lived  on  hope — now  he  despaired.  He  took  to 
drinking,  which  exalted  his  passions  and  debased  his  reason. 
This  at  times  gave  me  a  superiority  over  him — when  tipsy, 
I  could  escape  his  blows — which  yet,  when  sober,  felJ  on 
me  with  double  severity.  But  even  the  respite  I  gained 
through  his  inebriety  afforded  me  no  consolation — I  felt  at 
once  humbled  and  indignant  at  the  shame  so  brought  on  us. 
I,  child  as  I  was,  expostulated  with  him — I  was  knocked 
down,  and  kicked  from  the  room.  Oh,  what  a  world  this 
appeared  to  me  !  a  war  of  the  weak  with  the  strong — and 
how  I  despised  everything  except  victory. 

"  Time  wore  on.  My  uncle's  wife  bore  him  in  succes- 
sion two  girls.  This  was  a  respite.  My  father's  spirits 
rose — but,  fallen  as  he  was,  he  could  only  celebrate  liis  re- 
awakened hopes  by  deeper  potations  and  coarse  jokes. 
The  next  offspring  was  a  boy — he  cost  my  father  his  life. 
Habits  of  drink  had  inflamed  his  blood — and  his  violence 
of  temper  made  him  nearly  a  maniac.  On  hearing  of  the 
birth  of  the  heir,  he  drank  to  drown  thought ;  wine  was  too 
slow  a  medicine  ;  he  quaffed  deeply  of  brandy,  and  fell  into 
a  sleep,  or  rather  torpor,  from  which  he  never  after  awoke. 
It  was  better  so — he  had  spent  everything — he  was  deeply 
in  debt — he  had  lost  all  power  of  raising  himself  from  the 
state  of  debasement  into  which  he  had  fallen — the  next  day 
would  have  seen  him  in  prison. 

"  I  was  taken  in  by  my  uncle.  At  first  the  peace  and 
order  of  the  household  seemed  to  me  paradise — the  com- 
fort and  regularity  of  the  meals  was  a  sort  of  happy  and 
perpetual  miracle.  My  eye  was  no  longer  blasted  by  the 
sight  of  frightful  excesses,  nor  my  ear  wounded  by  obstrep- 
erous shouts.  I  was  no  longer  reviled — I  no  longer  feared 
being  felled  to  the  ground — I  was  not  any  more  obliged  to 


FALKNER.  169 

obtain  food  by  stratagem  or  by  expostulations,  which  al- 
ways ended  by  tny  being  the  victim  of  personal  violence. 
The  mere  calm  was  balmy,  acid  I  fancied  myself  free,  be- 
cause I  was  no  longer  in  a  state  of  perpetual  terror. 

"  But  soon  I  felt  the  cold  and  rigid  atmosphere  that,  as  far 
as  regarded  me,  ruled  this  calm.  No  eye  of  love  ever  turn- 
ed on  me,  no  voice  ever  spoke  a  cheering  word.  I  was 
there  on  suflerance,  and  was  quickly  deemed  a  troublesome 
inmate ;  while  the  order  and  regularity  required  of  me,  and 
the  law  passed  that  I  was  never  to  quit  the  house  alone, 
became  at  last  more  tormenting  than  the  precarious,  but 
wild  and  precious  liberty  of  my  former  life.  My  habits 
were  bad  enough ;  my  father's  vices  had  fostered  my  evil 
qualities — 1  had  never  learned  to  lie  or  cheat,  for  such  was 
foreign  to  my  nature  ;  but  1  was  rough,  self-willed,  lazy,  and 
insolent.  I  have  a  feeling,  such  was  my  sense  of  bliss  on 
first  entering  the  circle  of  order  and  peace,  that  a  very  lit- 
tle kindness  would  have  subdued  my  temper  and  awakened 
a  desire  to  please.  It  was  not  tried.  From  the  very  first 
I  was  treated  with  a  coldness  to  which  a  child  is  peculiarly 
sensitive  ;  the  servants,  by  enforcing  the  rules  of  the  house, 
became  first  my  tormentors,  and  then  my  enemies.  I  grew 
imperious  and  violent — complaint,  reprehension,  and  pun- 
ishment despoiled  my  paradise  of  its  matin  glow — and  then 
I  returned  at  once  to  my  own  bad  self;  I  was  disobedient 
and  reckless ;  soon  it  was  decreed  that  1  was  utterly  intol- 
erable, and  I  was  sent  to  school. 

"  This,  a  boy's  common  fate,  I  had  endured  without  a 
murmur,  had  it  not  been  inflicted  as  a  punishment,  and  I 
made  over  to  my  new  tyrants,  even  in  my  own  hearing,  as 
a  little  blackguard,  quite  irreclaimable,  and  only  to  be  kept 
in  order  by  brute  force.  It  is  impossible  to  describe  the 
effect  of  this  declaration  of  my  uncle — followed  up  by  the 
masters  recommendation  to  the  usher  to  break, my  spirit  if 
he  could  not  bend  it — had  on  my  heart,  which  was  bursting 
with  a  sense  of  injury,  panting  for  freedom,  and  resolved 
not  to  be  daunted  by  the  menaces  of  the  tyrants  before  me. 
I  declared  war  with  my  whole  soul  against  the  world  ;  I  be- 
came all  I  had  been  painted ;  I  was  sullen,  vindictive,  des- 
perate. I  resolved  to  run  away ;  I  cared  not  what  would 
befall  me ;  I  was  nearly  fourteen — I  was  strong,  and  could 
work — I  could  join  a  gang  of  gipsies,  I  could  act  their  life 
singly,  and,  subsisting  by  nightly  depredation,  spend  my 
days  in  liberty. 

"  It  was  at  an  hour  when  I  was  meditating  flight  that  the 
master  sent  for  me.  I  believed  that  some  punishment  was 
in  preparation.  I  hesitated  whetlier  I  should  not  instantly 
fly — a  moment's  thought  told  me  that  tliat  was  impossible, 
and  that  I  must  obey.  I  went  with  a  dogged  air,  and  a  de- 
termination to  resist.  I  found  my  tyrant  with,  a  letter  in  his 
15  H 


170  FALKNER. 

hand.  '  I  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  you,'  he  said  ;  *  I 
have  a  letter  here  from  a  relation,  asking  you  to  spend  the 
day.  You  deserve  no  indulgence,  but  tor  this  once  you 
may  go.  Remember,  any  future  permission  depends  upon 
your  turning  over  an  entirely  new  leaf.  Go,  sir;  and  be 
grateful  to  my  lenity,  if  you  can.  Remember,  you  are  to 
be  home  at  nine.'  1  asked  no  questions — I  did  not  know 
where  I  was  to  go ;  yet  I  left  him  without  a  word.  1  was 
sauntering  back  to  the  prison-yard  which  they  called  a  play- 
ground, when  I  was  told  that  there  was  a  pony-chaise  at 
the  door  ready  to  take  mc.  My  heart  leaped  at  the  word  ; 
I  fancied  that,  by  means  of  this  conveyance,  I  could  pro- 
ceed on  the  first  stage  of  my  flight.  The  pony-rarri-ige 
was  of  the  humblest  description  ;  an  old  man  drove.  I  got 
in,  and  away  we  trotted,  the  little  cob  that  drew  it  going 
much  faster  than  his  looks  gave  warrant.  The  driver  was 
deaf — I  was  sullen — not  a  word  did  we  exchan^^e.  My  plan 
was,  that  he  should  take  me  to  the  farthest  pomt  he  intend- 
ed, and  then  that  I  should  leap  out  and  take  to  my  heels. 
As  we  proceeded,  however,  my  rebel  fit  somewhat  sub- 
sided. We  left  the  town  in  which  the  school  was  situated, 
and  the  dreary,  dusty  roads  I  was  accustomed  to  perambu- 
late under  the  superintendence  of  the  ushers.  We  entered 
shady  lanes  and  umbrageous  groves ;  we  perceived  exten- 
sive prospects,  and  saw  the  winding  of  romantic  streams ; 
a  curtain  seemed  drawn  from  before  the  scenes  of  nature ; 
and  my  spirits  rose  as  I  gazed  on  new  objects,  and  saw 
earth  spread  wide  and  free  around.  At  first  this  only  ani- 
mated me  to  a  keener  resolve  to  fly ;  but,  as  we  went  on,  a 
vague  sentiment  possessed  my  soul.  The  skylarks  winged 
up  to  heaven,  and  the  swallows  skimmed  the  green  earth; 
I  felt  happy  because  nature  was  gay,  and  all  things  free  and 
at  peace.  We  turned  from  a  lane  redolent  with  honey- 
suckle into  a  little  wood,  whose  short  thick  turf  was  inter- 
spersed with  moss  and  starred  with  flowers.  Just  as  we 
emerged  I  saw  a  little  railing,  a  rustic  green  gate,  and  a  cot- 
tage clustered  over  with  woodbine  and  jessamine,  standing 
secluded  among,  yet  peeping  out  from  the  overshadowing 
trees.  A  little  peasant  boy  threw  open  the  gate,  and  we 
drove  up  to  the  cottage  door. 

"At  a  low  window  which  opened  on  the  lawn,  in  a  large 
arm-chair,  sat  a  lady,  evidently  marked  by  ill  health,  yet 
with  something  so  gentle  and  unearthly  in  her  appearance 
as  at  once  to  attraci  and  please.  Her  complexion  had  faded 
into  whiteness — her  hair  was  nearly  silver,  yet  not  a  grizzly 
grayish  white,  but  silken  still  in  its  change ;  her  dress  was 
also  white — and  there  was  something  of  a  withered  look 
about  her — redeemed  by  a  soft,  but  bright  gray  eye,  and 
more  by  the  sweetest  smile  in  the  world,  which  she  wore, 
as,  rising  from  her  chair,  she  embraced  me,  exclaiming,  '  I 


FALKNER.  171 

know  you  from  your  likeness  to  your  mother — dear,  dear 
Rupert.' 

"  That  name  of  itself  touched  a  chord  which  for  many 
years  had  been  mine.  My  mother  had  called  me  by  that 
name  ;  so  indeed  had  my  father,  when  any  momentary  soft- 
ness of  feeling  allowed  him  to  give  me  any  other  appella- 
tion except  '  Vousirl'  '  Vou  dog,  you!'  My  uncle,  after 
whom  I  was  also  called  John,  chose  to  drop  what  he  called 
a  silly,  romantic  name  ;  and  in  his  house,  and  in  his  letters, 
I  was  always  John.  Kupert  breathed  of  a  dear  home  and 
my  motiier's  kiss;  and  I  looked  inquiringly  on  her  who 
gave  it  me,  when  my  attention  was  attracted,  rivijted  by 
the  vision  of  a  lovely  girl,  who  had  glided  in  from  another 
room,  and  stood  near  us,  radiant  in  youth  and  beauty.  She 
was,  indeed,  supremely  lovely — exuberant  in  all  ihe  charms 
of  girlhood — and  her  beauty  was  enhanced  by  the  very  con- 
trast to  the  pale  lady  bj^  whom  she  stood — an  houri  she 
seemed,  standing  by  a  disiinbodied  spirit — black,  soft,  larg« 
eyes,  overpowering  in  their  lustre,  and  yet  more  so  from 
the  soul  that  dwelt  within — a  cherub  look — a  fairy  form; 
with  a  complexion  and  shape  that  spoke  of  health  and  joy. 
What  could  it  mean  1  Who  could  she  be  ?  And  who  was 
she  who  knew  my  name  ^  It  was  an  enigma,  but  one  full 
of  promise  to  me,  who  had  so  long  been  exiled  from  the 
charities  of  life  ;  and  who,  '  as  the  hart  panteth  for  the  wa- 
ter brooks,'  panted  for  love. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"  After  a  little  explanation,  I  discovered  who  my  new 
friends  were.  The  lady  and  my  mother  were  remotely  re- 
lated ;  hut  they  had  been  educated  together,  and  separated 
only  when  they  married.  My  niothei's  death  had  prevented 
my  knowing  that  such  a  relation  existed  ;  far  less  that  she 
took  the  warmest  interest  in  the  son  of  her  earliest  friend. 
Mr-!.  Rivers  had  been  the  poorer  of  the  two,  and  for  a  long 
time  considered  that  her  childhood's  companion  was  moving 
in  an  elevated  sphere  of  life,  while  she  had  married  a  lieu- 
tenant in  the  navy;  and  while  he  was  away,  attending  the 
duties  of  his  profession,  she  lived  in  retirement  and  econo- 
my, in  the  rustic,  low-roofed,  yet  picturesque  and  secluded 
cottage,  whose  leaf-shrouded  casements  and  flowery  lawn 
even  now  are  before  me,  and  speak  of  peace.  I  never  call 
to  mind  that  abode  of  tranquillity  without  associating  i 
with  the  poet's  wish  : — 

H3 


iti  FALKNER. 

'  Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill — 

A  beehive's  hum  shall  sooth  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  tume  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near.' 

To  any  one  who  fully  understands  and  appreciates  tlie  pecu- 
liar beauties  of  England — who  knows  how  much  elegance, 
content,  and  knowledge  can  be  sheltered  under  such  a  roof, 
these  lines  must  ever,  I  think,  as  to  me,  have  a  mui«ic  of 
their  own,  and,  unpretending  as  they  are,  breathe  the  very 
soul  of  happiness.  In  this  imbowered  cot,  near  which  a 
clear  stream  murmured — which  was  clustered  over  by  a 
thousand  odoriferous  parasites — which  stood  in  the  seclu- 
sion of  a  beech  wood — there  dwelt  something  more  endear- 
ing even  than  all  this — and  one  glance  at  the  only  daughter 
of  Mrs.  Rivers  served  to  disclose  that  an  angel  dwelt  in  the 
paradise. 

'•  Alilhea  Rivers — there  is  music,  and  smiles,  and  tears — 
a  whole  life  of  happiness — and  moments  of  intensest  trans- 
port in  the  sound.  Her  beauty  was  radiant;  her  dark  eastern 
eye,  shaded  by  the  veined  and  darkly-fringed  lid,  beamed 
with  a  soft  but  penetrating  fire;  her  face  of  a  perfect  oval, 
and  lips  which  were  wreathed  into  a  thousand  smiles,  or 
softly  and  silently  parted,  seemed  the  home  of  every  tender 
and  poetic  expression  which  one  longed  to  hear  them  breathe 
forth;  her  brow  clear  as  day;  her  swan  throat  and  symmet- 
rical and  fairy-like  form  disclosed  a  perfection  of  loveliness, 
that  the  youngest  and  least  susceptible  must  have  fell,  even 
if  they  did  not  acknowledge. 

"  She  had  two  qualities  which  I  have  never  seen  equalled 
sepirately,  but  which,  united  in  her,  formed  a  spell  no  one 
could  resist — the  most  acute  sensitiveness  to  joy  or  grief  in 
her  own  person,  and  the  most  lively  sympathy  with  these 
feelings  in  others.  I  have  seen  her  so  enter  heart  and  soul 
into  the  sentiments  of  one  in  whom  she  was  interested,  that 
her  whole  being  took  the  colour  of  their  mood  ;  and  her  very 
features  and  complexion  appeared  to  alter  in  unison  with 
theirs.  Her  temper  was  never  ruffled;  she  could  not  be 
angry;  she  grieved  too  deeply  for  those  who  did  wrong; 
but  slie  could  be  glad ;  and  never  have  I  seen  joy,  the  very 
sunshine  of  the  soul,  so  cloudlessly  expressed  as  in  her  coun- 
tenance. She  could  .subdue  the  stoutest  heart  by  a  look — a 
word  ;  and  were  she  ever  wrong  herself  a  sincere  acknowl- 
edgment,  an  ingenuous  shame — grief  to  have  offended,  and 
eagerness  to  make  reparation,  turned  her  very  error  into 
a  virtue.  Her  spirits  were  high,  even  to  wildness;  but, 
at  their  height,  tempered  by  such  thought  for  others,  such 
inbred  feminine  softness,  that  her  most  exuberant  gayety 
resenibled  heart-cheering  music,  and  made  each  bosom 
respond.  All,  everything  loved  her;  her  mother  idolized 
her ;  each  bird  of  the  grove  knew  her ;   and  I  felt  sure  that 


FALKNER.  173 

the  very  flowers  she  tended  were  conscious  of,  and  rejoiced 
in,  her  presence. 

"  Since  my  birth — or  at  least  since  I  had  lost  my  mother 
in  enrly  infuncy,  my  path  had  been  cast  upon  tdorn.s  and 
brHnibles — blows  and  stripes,  cold  neglect,  reprehension, 
and  debasing  slavery  ;  to  such  was  I  doomed.  1  had  longed 
for  something  to  love — and  in  the  desire  to  possess  some- 
thing whose  affections  were  my  own,  I  had  secreted  at 
school  a  liitie  nest  of  field  mice  on  which  I  tended  ;  but  human 
being  there  was  none  who  marked  me,  except  to  revile,  and 
my  proud  heart  rose  in  indignation  against  them.  Mrs. 
Rivers  had  heard  a  sad  story  of  my  obduracy,  my  indolence, 
my  violence  ;  she  had  expected  to  see  a  savage,  but  my 
likeness  to  my  mother  won  her  heart  at  once,  and  the  affec- 
tion I  met  transformed  me  at  once  into  something  worthy 
of  her.  I  had  been  told  I  was  a  reprobate  till  I  half  believed. 
I  felt  that  there  was  war  between  me  and  my  tyrants,  and  I 
was  desirous  to  make  them  suffer  even  as  they  made  me. 
I  read  in  books  of  the  charities  of  life — and  the  very  words 
seemed  only  a  portion  of  that  vast  system  of  imposture  with 
which  the  strong  oppressed  the  weak.  I  did  not  believe  in 
love  or  beauty  ;  or  if  ever  my  heart  opened  to  it,  it  was  to 
view  it  in  external  nature,  and  to  wonder  how  all  of  per- 
ceptive and  sentient  in  this  wondrous  fabric  of  the  universe 
was  instinct  with  injury  and  wrong. 

"Mrs.  Rivers  was  a  woman  of  feeling  and  sense.  She 
drew  me  out — she  dived  into  the  secrets  of  my  heart;  for 
my  mother's  sake  she  loved  me,  and  she  saw  that  to  implant 
sentimenis  of  affection  was  to  redeem  a  character  not  ungen- 
erous, and  far,  far  from  cold — whose  evil  passions  had  been 
fostered  as  in  a  hotbed,  and  wliose  better  propensities  were 
nipped  in  the  bud.  She  strove  to  awaken  my  susceptibility 
to  kindness,  by  lavishing  a  thousand  marks  (,f  favour.  She 
called  me  her  son — her  friend;  she  taught  me  to  look  upon 
her  regard  as  a  possession  of  which  nothing'  could  deprive 
me,  and  to  consider  herself  and  her  daughter  as  near  and 
dear  ties  that  could  not  be  rent  away.  She  imparted  happi- 
ness, she  awoke  gratitude,  and  made  me  in  my  innermost 
heart  swear  to  deserve  her  favour. 

"  I  now  entered  on  a  new  state  of  being,  and  one  of  which 
I  had  formed  no  previous  idea.  I  believed  that  the  wish  to 
please  one  who  was  dear  to  me  would  render  every  ta^k 
easy;  that  I  did  wrong  merely  from  caprice  and  revenge, 
and  that  if  I  cliose,  I  could  with  my  finger  stem  and  dire'^t 
the  tide  of  my  passions.  I  was  astonished  to  find  that  I 
could  not  even  bend  my  mind  to  attention — and  I  was  angry 
with  myself,  when  I  felt  my  breast  boiling  with  tninultu.ius 
rage,  when  1  promised  myself  to  be  meek,  enduring,  and 
gentle.  My  endeavours  to  conquer  these  evil  habits  were 
indeed  arduous.     I  forced  myself  by  fits  and  starts  to  study 


hi 


FALKNER. 


sedulously — I  yielded  obedience  to  our  school  laws  ;  I  taxei 
myself  to  bear  with  pMtieiice  the  injustice  and  impertinence 
of  the  ushers,  and  the  undisguised  tyranny  of  the  master. 
But  I  could  not  for  ever  string  myself  to  this  pitch.  Mean- 
ness, and  falsehood,  and  injustice  again  and  again  awoke  the 
tiger  in  me.  1  am  not  going  to  narrate  my  boyhood's 
wrongs  ;  I  was  doomed.  Sent  to  school  with  a  bad  character, 
which  at  first  I  had  taken  pains  to  de.serve,  and  afterward 
doing  right  in  my  own  way,  and  still  holding  myself  aloof 
from  all,  scorning  their  praise,  and  untouched  by  their  cen- 
sure, I  gained  no  approbation,  and  was  deemed  a  dangerous 
savage,  whose  nails  must  be  kept  close  pared,  and  whose 
limbs  were  still  to  be  fettered,  lest  he  should  rend  his  keepers. 
"  From  such  a  scene  I  turned,  each  Sunday  morning,  my 
willing  steps  to  the  cottage  of  Mrs.  Rivers.  There  waS 
something  fascinating  to  me  in  the  very  peculiarities  of  her 
appearance.  Ill  health  had  brought  premature  age  upon  her 
person — but  her  mind  was  as  active  and  young — her  feelings 
as  warm  as  ever.  She  could  only  stand  for  a  few  minutes, 
and  could  not  unassisted  walk  across  the  room — she  took 
hardly  any  nourishment,  and  looked,  as  I  have  said,  more  like 
a  spirit  than  a  woman.  Thus  deprived  of  every  outward 
resource,  her  mind  acquired,  from  habits  of  reflection  and 
resignation,  aided  by  judicious  reading,  a  penetration  and 
delicacy  quite  unequalled.  There  was  a  philosophical  truth 
in  all  her  remarks,  adorned  by  a  feminine  tact  and  extreme 
warmth  of  heart,  that  rendered  her  as  admirable  as  she  was 
endearing.  Sometimes  she  sufiTered  great  pain,  but,  for  the 
most  part,  her  malady,  which  was  connected  with  the  spine, 
had  only  the  effect  of  extreme  weakness,  and  at  the  same 
time  of  rendering  her  sensations  acute  and  delicate.  The 
odour  of  flowers,  the  balmy  air  of  morning,  the  evening 
breeze  almost  intoxicated  her  with  delight ;  any  dissonant 
sound  appeared  to  shatter  her — peace  was  within,  and  she 
coveted  peace  around;  and  it  was  her  dearest  pleasure  when 
we — I  and  her  lovely  daughter — were  at  her  feet,  she  play- 
ing with  the  sunny  ringlets  of  Alithea's  hair,  and  I  listening, 
with  a  thirst  for  knowledge — and  ardour  to  be  taught ;  while 
she  with  eloquence  mild  and  cheering,  full  of  love  and 
wisdom,  charmed  our  attentive  ears,  and  caused  us  to  hang 
on  all  she  said  as  on  the  oracles  of  a  divinity. 

"  At  times  we  left  her,  and  Alithea  and  I  wandered  through 
the  woods  and  over  the  hills  ;  our  talk  was  inexhaustible, 
now  canvassing  some  observation  of  her  mother,  now  pour- 
ing out  our  own  youthful  bright  ideas,  and  enjoying  the 
breezes  and  the  waterfalls,  and  every  sight  of  nature,  with  a 
rapture  unspeakable.  When  we  came  to  rugged  uplands,  or 
some  swollen  brook,  1  carried  my  young  companion  over  in 
my  arms;  1  sheltered  her  with  my  body  from  the  storms 
that  f?ometime8  overtook  us.     I  waa  her  protector  and  her 


i-ALKNfiR.  i*7S 

Stay;  and  the  very  office  filled  me  with  pride  and  joy. 
When  fatigued  by  our  rambles,  we  returned  home,  bringing 
garlands  of  wild  flowers  fur  the  invalid,  whose  wisdom  we 
revered,  whose  maternal  tenderness  was  our  joy  ;  and  yet, 
whose  weakness  made  her,  in  some  degree,  dependant  on 
us,  and  gave  the  form  of  a  voluntary  tribute  to  the  attentions 
we  delighted  to  p-jy  her. 

"  Oh,  hnd  1  never  returned  to  school,  this  life  had  been  a 
foretaste  of  heaven !  but  there  I  returned,  and  there  again  I 
found  rebuke,  injustice,  my  evil  passions,  and  the  fiends  who 
tormented  me.  How  my  heart  revolted  from  the  contrast ! 
with  what  inconceivable  struggles  1  tried  to  subdue  my 
hatred,  to  be  as  charitable  and  forgiving  as  Mrs.  Rivers  im- 
plored me  to  be;  but  my  tormentors  had  the  art  of  rousing 
the  savage  again,  and,  despite  good  resolves,  despite  my  very 
pride,  which  urged  me  merely  to  despise,  1  was  again 
violent  and  rebelHous ;  again  punished,  again  vowing  re- 
venge, and  longing  to  obtain  it.  1  cannot  imagine — even 
the  wild  passions  of  my  after  life  do  not  disclose — more 
violent  struggles  than  those  I  went  through.  I  returned 
from  my  friends,  my  heart  stored  with  affectionate  senti- 
ments and  good  intentions  ;  my  brow  was  smooth,  my  mind 
unruffled;  my  whole  soul  set  upon  at  once  commanding 
myself,  and  proving  to  my  tyrants  that  they  could  not  disturb 
the  sort  of  heavenly  calm  with  whicli  I  was  penetrated. 

"  On  such  a  day,  and  feeling  thus,  I  came  back  one  even- 
ing from  the  cottage.  I  was  met  by  one  of  the  ushers,  who, 
in  a  furious  voice,  demanded  the  key  of  my  room,  threaten- 
ing me  with  punishment  if  I  ever  dared  lock  it  again.  This 
was  a  sore  point;  my  little  family  of  mice  had  their  warm 
liest  in  my  room,  and  I  knew  that  they  would  be  torn  from 
me  if  the  animal  before  me  penetrated  into  my  sanctuary 
before  I  could  get  in  to  hide  them  ;  but  the  fellow  had  learned 
from  the  maids  that  1  had  some  pets,  and  was  resolute  to 
discover  them.  I  cannot  dwell  on  the  puerile  yet  hideous 
minutiae  of  such  a  scene  ;  the  loud  voice,  the  blow,  the  key 
torn  from  me,  the  roar  of  malice  with  which  my  pets  were 
hailed,  the  call  for  the  cat.  My  blood  ran  cold ;  some  slave 
— among  boys  even  there  are  slaves — threw  into  the  room 
the  tiger  animal ;  the  usher  showed  her  her  prey;  but  before 
she  could  spring  I  caught  her  up,  and  whirled  her  out  of  the 
window  The  usher  gave  me  a  blow  with  a  stick;  I  was  a 
well-grown  boy,  and  a  match  for  him  unarmed  ;  he  struck 
me  on  the  head,  and  then  drew  out  a  knife,  that  he  might 
himself  commence  the  butcher's  work  on  my  favourites: 
stimned  by  the  blow,  but  casting  aside  all  the  cherished  calm 
1  had  hitiierto  maintained,  my  blood  boiling,  my  whole 
frame  convulsed  with  passion,  I  sprung  on  him.  We  both 
fell  on  the  ground,  his  knife  was  in  hand,  open;  in  our 
struggle  I  seized  the  weapon,  and  the  fellow  got  cut  in  the 


176  FALKNER. 

head — of  course  I  inflicted  the  wound  ;  but  had,  neither 
before  nor  at  that  time,  the  iiiltMilion;  our  stru2:gle  was  furi- 
ous ;  we  were  both  in  a  slate  of  phrensy,  and  an  opi^n  knife  at 
such  a  moment  can  hardly  fail  to  do  injury  ;  I  saw  the  blood 
pouring  from  his  temple,  and  his  efforts  slacken.  I  jumped 
up,  called  furioussly  for  help,  and  when  the  servants  and 
boys  rushed  into  the  room,  I  made  my  escape.  I  leaped 
from  the  window,  high  as  it  was,  and  alighted,  ainiost  by  a 
miracle,  unhurt  on  the  turf  below;  1  made  my  way  wi?h  ail 
speed  across  the  fields.  Methought  the  guilt  of  murder  was 
on  my  soul,  and  yet  1  fell  exultation  that  at  last  1,  a  boy,  had 
brought  upon  the  head  of  my  foe  some  of  the  tortures  he 
had  so  often  inflicted  upon  me.  By  this  desperate  act  I 
believed  that  I  had  severed  the  cords  that  bound  me  to  the 
vilest  servitude.  1  knew  not  but  that  houseless  want  would 
be  my  reward,  but  I  felt  light  as  air  and  free  as  a  bird. 

"  Instinctively  my  steps  took  the  direction  of  my  beloved 
cottage ;  yet  I  dared  not  enter  it.  A  few  hours  ago  I  had 
l«ft  it  in  a  pi.tre  and  generous  frame  of  mind.  I  called  to 
mind  the  conversation  of  the  evening  before,  the  gentle  elo- 
quence of  Mrs.  Rivers,  inculcating  those  lessons  of  mild  for- 
bearance and  lofty  self-command  which  had  filled  me  with 
genenius  resolve;  and  how  was  I  to  return  1 — my  hands 
died  in  blood. 

"  I  hid  mysf-lf  in  the  thicket  near  her  house,  sometimes  I 
stole  near  it;  then,  as  I  heard  voices,  I  retreated  farther  into 
the  wild  part  of  the  wood.  Night  came  on  at  last,  and  that 
night  1  slept  under  a  tree,  but  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
cottage. 

"  The  cool  morning  air  woke  me ;  and  I  began  seriously 
to  consider  my  situation ;  destitute  of  friends  and  money, 
whither  sliould  I  direct  my  steps?  I  was  resolved  never  to 
return  to  my  school.  I  was  nearly  sixteen;  I  was  tall  and 
athletic  in  my  frame,  though  still  a  mere  boy  in  my  thoughts 
and  pursuits;  still,  1  told  myself  that,  such  as  1,  many  a 
stripling  was  cast  upon  the  world,  and  that  1  ought  to  sum- 
mon courage,  and  to  show  my  tyrants  that  I  could  exist 
independent  of  them.  My  determination  was  to  enhst  as  a 
soldier  ;  I  believed  that  1  should  so  distinguish  myself  by  my 
valour  as  speedily  to  become  a  great  man.  I  saw  myself 
singled  out  by  the  generals,  applauded,  honoured,  and  re- 
warded. 1  fancied  my  return,  and  how  proudly  I  should 
present  myself  before  Alilhea,  having  carved  out  my  own 
fortune,  and  become  all  that  her  sweet  mother  entreated  me 
to  be — brave,  generous,  and  true.  But  could  I  put  my 
scheme  in  execution  without  seeing  my  young  companion 
ag;iin  1  Oh,  no  !  my  heart,  my  whole  soul  led  me  to  her 
side,  to  demand  her  sympathy,  to  ask  her  prayers,  to  bid 
her  never  forget  me ;  at  the  same  time  that  I  dreaded  seeing 
lier  luot.her,,  for  I  fe^ived  her  lessons  of  wisdom.     I  feltsure. 


FALKNER.  177 

1  knew  not  why,  that  she  would  wholly  disapprove  of  my 
design. 

"  I  tore  a  leaf  from  my  pocketbook,  and,  with  the  pencil, 
implored  Alithea  to  meet  me  in  the  wood,  whence  I  resolved 
not  to  stir  till  1  should  see  her.  But  how  was  I  to  convey 
my  paper  without  the  knowledge  of  her  mother?  or  being 
seen  by  the  servants'?  I  hovered  about  all  day;  it  was  not 
till  nightfall  that  I  ventured  near,  and,  knowing  well  the 
casement  of  her  room,  I  wrapped  my  letter  round  a  stone, 
and  threw  it  in.     Then  I  retreated  speedily. 

*'  It  was  night  again ;  I  had  not  eaten  for  twenty-four 
hours;  I  knew  not  when  Alithea  could  come  to  me,  but  I 
resolved  not  to  move  from  the  spot  I  liad  designated  till  she 
came.  1  hunted  for  a  few  berries,  and  a  turnip  that  had 
fallen  from  a  cart  was  as  the  manna  of  the  desert.  For  a 
short  half  hour  it  stilled  the  giiawings  of  my  appetite,  and 
then  I  lay  down  unable  to  sleep.  Eying  the  stars  through 
the  leafy  boughs  above,  thinking  allernatelj'  of  a  prisoner 
deserted  by  his  jailer,  and  starved  to  death,  while  at  each 
moment  he  fancied  the  far  step  approaching,  and  the  key 
turning  in  the  lock;  and  then,  again,  of  feasts,  of  a  paradise 
of  fruits,  of  the  simple,  cheerful  repasts  at  the  cottage, 
which,  for  many  a  long  year,  I  was  destined  never  again  to 
partake  of- 

*'  It  was  midnight;  the  air  was  still,  not  a  leaf  moved; 
sometimes  I  believed  1  dosed ;  but  1  had  a  sense  of  being 
awake  always  present  to  my  mind  ;  the  hours  seemed 
changed  to  eternity.  I  began  suddenly  to  think  1  was  dying; 
I  thought  I  never  should  see  the  morrow's  sun.  Aliihea 
would  come,  but  her  friend  would  not  answer  to  her  call ;  he 
would  never  speak  to  her  more.  At  this  moment  I  heard  a 
rustling;  was  there  some  animal  about?  it  drew  near,  it 
was  steps ;  a  white  figure  appeared  between  the  trunks  of 
the  trees;  again  I  thought  it  was  a  dream,  till  the  dearest 
of  all  voices  spoke  my  name,  the  loveliest  and  kindest  face 
in  the  world  bent  over  me ;  my  cold,  clamnty  hand  was 
taken  in  hers,  so  soft  and  warm.  I  started  up,  1  threw  my 
arms  around  her,  I  pressed  her  to  my  bosom.  She  had 
found  my  note  on  retiring  for  the  night;  fearful  of  disobey- 
ing my  injunctions  of  secrecy,  she  had  waited  till  all  was  at 
rest  before  she  stole  out  to  me;  and  now,  with  all  the 
thoughtfulness  that  characterized  her,  when  another's  wants 
and  sufferings  were  in  question,  she  brought  food  with  her, 
and  a  large  cloak  to  wrap  my  shivering  limbs.  She  sat 
beside  me  as  I  ate,  smiling  throuiih  her  tears;  no  reproach 
fell  from  her  lips,  it  whs  only  joy  to  see  me,  and  expressions 
of  kind  encouragement. 

"I  dwell  too  much  on  these  days;  my  tale  grows  long, 
and  I  must  abridge  the  dear  recollections  of  those  moments 
of  innocence  and  happiness.  Alithea  easilv  persuaded  rae 
H3 


178  FALKNER. 

to  see  her  mother,  and  Mrs.  Rivers  received  me  as  a  mother 
would  a  son  who  has  been  in  danger  of  death,  and  is  recov- 
ering. I  saw  only  smiles,  I  heard  only  congratulations.  I 
wondered  where  the  misery  and  despair  which  gathered  so 
thickly  around  me  had  flown — no  vestige  remained;  the  sun 
shone  unclouded  on  my  soul. 

"  1  asked  no  questions,  I  remained  passive  ;  I  felt  that 
soiDelhing  was  being  done  for  me,  but  I  did  not  inquire  what. 
Each  dny  I  spent  several  hours  in  study,  so  to  reward  the 
kindness  of  my  indulgent  friend.  Each  day  I  listened  to  her 
gentle  converse,  and  wandered  with  Alithea  over  hill  and 
Cale,  and  poured  into  her  ear  my  resolutions  to  become  great 
and  good.  Surely  in  this  world  there  are  no  aspirations  so 
noble,  pure,  and  godlike  as  those  breathed  by  an  enthusiastic 
boy,  u  lie  dreams  of  love  and  virtue,  and  who  is  still  guarded 
by  cliildlike  innocence. 

"  Mrs.  Rivers,  meanwhile,  was  in  correspondence  with  my 
uncle,  and,  by  a  fortunate  coincidence,  a  cadetship  long 
sought  by  him  was  presented  at  tliis  moment,  and  I  was  re- 
moved to  thn  l*]ast  Indian  military  college.  Before  I  went, 
my  maternal  friend  spoke  with  all  the  fervour  of  affection 
of  my  errors,  my  duties,  the  expectation  she  had  that  I 
should  show  myself  worthy  of  the  hopes  she  entertained  of 
me.  I  ptomised  to  her  and  to  Alithea — 1  vowed  to  become 
all  they  wished  ;  my  bosom  swelled  with  generous  ambition 
and  ardent  gratitude;  the  drama  of  life,  methought,  was  un- 
rolling before  me — the  scene  on  which  I  was  to  act  ap- 
peared resplendent  in  fairy  and  gorgeous  colours;  neither 
vanity  nor  pride  swelled  me  up;  but  a  desire  to  prove 
myself  worthy  of  those  adored  beings  who  were  all  the 
world  to  me,  who  had  saved  me  from  myself,  to  restore  me 
to  the  pure  and  happy  shelter  of  their  hearts.  Can  it  be 
wondered  that,  from  that  day  to  the  present  hour,  they  have 
seemed  to  me  portions  of  heaven  incarnate  upon  earth? — 
that  I  have  prized  the  thought  of  them  as  a  rich  inheritance  T 
And  how  did  I  repay?  Cold,  wan  fii^ure  of  the  dead  I  re- 
})roach  me  not  thus  with  your  closed  eyes,  and  the  dank 
strintrs  of  your  wet  clinging  hair.  Give  me  space  to  breithe, 
that  I  may  record  your  vindication  and  my  crime. 

"  I  was  placed  at  the  military  college.  Had  I  gone  there 
at  once,  it  had  been  well:  but"first  1  spent  a  month  at  my 
uncle's,  where  I  was  treated  like  a  repiohate  and  a  criminal. 
I  tried  to  consider  this  but  as  a  trial  of  my  promises  and 
good  resolution  to  be  gentle — to  turn  one  cheek  when  the 
other  was  smitten.  It  is  not  for  me  to  accuse  others  or 
defend  myself;  hut  yet  I  think  that  I  had  imbibed  so  much 
of  the  celes'ial  virtues  of  my  instructress,  that,  had  I  been 
treated  with  any  kindness,  my  heart  must  have  warmed 
towards  my  relatives  ;  as  it  was,  I  left  my  uncle's,  having 
made  a  vow  never  to  sleep  beneath  his  roof  again. 


FALKNER.  179 

"I  reached  the  military  college,  and  here  I  might  fairly 
begin  a  new  career.  I  exerted  myself  to  study — to  obey — 
to  conciliate.  The  applause  that  followed  my  endeavours 
gave  me  a  little  pleasure  ;  but  when  1  wrote  to  Aliihea  and 
her  mother,  and  felt  no  weight  on  my  conscience,  no  draw- 
back to  my  hope,  that  I  was  rendering  myself  worthy  of 
them,  then  indeed  n\y  felicity  was  wittiout  alloy;  and  when 
my  fiery  temper  kindled,  when  injustice  and  meanness  cnnsed 
my  blood  to  boil,  I  thought  of  the  mild,  appealing  look  ofr.lrs. 
Rivers,  and  the  dearer  smiles  of  her  daughter,  and  I  sup- 
pressed every  outward  sign  of  anger  and  scorn. 

"For  two  whole  years  I  did  not  see  these  dear,  dear 
friends,  while  I  lived  npon  the  thouglit  of  them — alas!  when 
have  I  ceased  to  do  that] — I  wrote  constnutly  and  received 
letters.  Those  dictated  by  Mrs.  Rivers,  traced  by  h-^r  sweet 
daughter's  hand,  were  full  of  all  that  generous  benevolence, 
and  enlightened  sensibility  which  rendered  her  the  very  be- 
ing to  instruct  and  rule  me  ;  while  the  playful  phrases  of 
Alithea — her  mention  of  the  spots  we  had  visited  together, 
and  history  of  all  the  slight  events  of  her  innocent  life, 
breathed  so  truly  of  the  abode  of  peace  from  which  they 
emanated,  that  they  carried  the  charm  of  a  soft  repose  even 
to  my  restless  spirit.  A  year  passed,  and  then  tidings  of 
misery  came.  Mrs.  Rivers  was  dying.  Alithea  wrote  in 
despair — she  was  alone — her  father  distant.  She  implored 
my  assistance — my  presence.  I  did  not  hesitate.  Her 
appeal  came  during  the  period  that  preceded  an  examination; 
I  believed  that  it  would  be  useless  to  ask  leave  to  absent  my- 
self, and  I  resolved  at  once  to  go  without  permission.  I  wrote 
a  letter  to  the  master,  mentioning  that  the  sickness  of  a 
friend  forced  me  to  this  step ;  and  then,  almost  moneyless 
and  on  foot,  1  set  out  to  cross  the  country.  1  do  not  record 
trivialties — 1  will  not  mention  the  physical  sufferings  of  that 
journey,  they  were  so  much  less  than  tiie  agony  of  sus- 
pense I  suffered,  the  fear  that  I  should  not  find  my  maternal 
friend  alive.  Life  burnt  low  indeed — when  I,  at  last,  step- 
ped within  the  threshold  of  her  sick  chamber  ;  yet  she  smiled 
when  she  saw  me,  and  tried  to  hold  out  her  hand — one 
already  clasped  that  of  Alithea.  For  hours  we  thus  watch- 
ed her,  exchanging  looks,  not  speech.  Alithea,  naturally 
impetuous,  and  even  vehement,  now  controlled  all  sign  of 
grief,  except  the  expression  of  wo,  that  took  ail  colour 
from  her  face,  and  clouded  her  brow  with  anguish.  She 
knelt  beside  her  mother — her  lips  glued  to  her  hand,  as  if  to 
the  last  to  feel  her  pulse  of  life,  and  assure  herself  that  she 
still  existed.  The  room  was  darkened;  a  broken  ray  tinged 
the  head  of  the  mourner,  while  her  mother  lay  in  shadow — 
a  shadow  that  seemed  to  deepen  as  the  hue  of  death  crept 
over  her  face  ;  now  and  then  she  opened  her  eyes — now  and 
then  murmured  inarticulately,  and  then  she  seemed  to  sleep. 


189  FALKNER. 

We  neither  nioA'ed — sometimes  Alithea  raised  her  head  and 
looked  on  her  mother's  countenance,  and  then,  seeing  the 
change  already  operated,  it  drooped  over  the  wan  hand  she 
held.  Suddenly  tliere  was  a  slight  sound — a  slight  convul- 
sion in  the  fingers.  I  saw  a  shade  darken  over  the  face — 
something  seemed  to  pass  over,  and  then  away — and  all  was 
marble  still — and  the  lips,  wreathed  into  a  smile,  became 
fixed  and  breathless.  Alithea  started  up,  uttered  a  shriek, 
and  threw  herself  on  her  mother's  body — such  name  1  give 
— the  blameless  soul  was  gone  for  ever. 

"It  was  my  task  to  console  the  miserable  daughter;  and 
such  was  the  angelic  softness  of  Alithea's  disposition,  that 
when  the  first  burst  of  grief  was  over,  she  yielded  to  be  con- " 
soled.  There  was  no  hardness  in  her  regrets.  She  collected 
every  relic,  surrounded  herself  with  every  object  that  might 
keep  alive  the  memory  of  her  parent.  She  talked  of  her 
continually  ;  and  together  we  spoke  of  her  virtues,  her  wis- 
dom, her  ardent  affection,  and  felt  a  thrilling,  trembling 
pleasure  in  recalling  every  act  and  word  that  most  displayed 
her  excellence.  As  we  were  thus  employed,  1  could  con- 
template and  remark  the  change  the  interval  of  my  absence 
had  operated  in  the  beautiful  girl — she  had  sprung  into  wo- 
manhood ;  her  figure  was  surrounded  by  a  thousand  graces ; 
a  tender  charm  was  diffused  over  each  lineament  and  mo- 
tion that  intoxicated  me  with  delight.  Before  1  loved — now 
I  revered  her;  her  mother's  angelic  essence  seemed  united 
to  hers,  forming  two  in  one.  The  sentiments  these  beings 
had  divided  were  now  concentrated  in  her ;  and  added  to 
this,  a  breathless  adoration,  a  heart's  devotion,  which  still 
even  now  dwells  beside  her  grave,  and  hallows  every  mem- 
or)'^  that  remains. 

"  The  cold  tomb  held  the  gentle  form  of  Mrs.  Rivers : 
each  day  we  visited  it,  and  each  day  we  collected  fresh  me- 
morials, and  exhausted  ourselves  in  talk  concerning  the  lost 
one.  Immediately  on  my  arrival  I  had  written  to  my  uncle, 
and  the  cause  of  my  rash  act  pleading  my  excuse,  it  was 
visited  less  severely  than  I  expected  ;  I  was  told  that  it  was 
well  that  I  displayed  affection  and  gratitude  towards  a  too 
indulgent  friend,  though  my  depravity  betrayed  itself  in  the 
manner  even  in  which  I  fulfilled  a  duly.  1  was  bid  at  once 
return  to  the  college — after  a  fortnight  had  passed  I  obeyed; 
and  now  1  lived  on  Alithea's  letters,  which  breathed  only 
her  eloquent  regrets — already  my  own  dream  of  life  was 
formed  to  be  for  ever  her  protector,  her  friend,  her  servant, 
her  all  that  she  could  deign  to  make  me  ;  to  devote  myself 
day  after  day,  year  after  yenr,  through  all  my  life  to  her  only. 
While  with  her,  oppressed  by  grief  as  we  both  were,  I  did 
not  understand  my  own  sensations,  and  the  burning  of  my 
heart,  which  opened  as  a  volcano  when  I  heard  her  only 
speak  my  name,  or  felt  the  touch  of  her  soft  hand.    But, 


FALKNER.  181 

returned  to  college,  a  veil  fell  from  my  eyes.  I  knew  that 
I  loved  her,  I  hailed  the  discovery  with  transport ;  I  hugged 
to  my  bosom  the  idea  that  she  was  the  first  and  last  being 
to  awaken  the  tumultuous  sensations  that  took  away  my 
breath,  dimmed  my  eyes,  and  dissolved  me  into  tenderness. 

Soon  after  her  mother's  death  she  was  placed  as  a  parlour 
boarder  at  a  school.  I  saw  her  once  there,  but  I  did  not  see 
her  alone.  I  could  not  speak — 1  could  only  gaze  on  her  un- 
exampled loveliness ;  nor,  strange  to  say,  did  I  wish  to  dis- 
close the  passion  that  agitated  me :  she  was  so  young,  so 
confiding,  so  innocent,  1  wished  to  be  but  as  a  brother  to  her, 
for  I  had  a  sort  of  restless  presentiment  that  distance  and 
reserve  would  ensue  on  my  disclosing  my  other  feeling.  In 
fact,  I  was  a  mere  boy;  I  knew  myself  to  be  a  friendless 
one.  and  I  desired  time  and  consideration,  and  the  fortunate 
moment  to  occur,  before  I  exchanged  our  present  guileless, 
but  warm  and  tender  attachment,  for  the  hopes  and  throes 
of  a  passion  which  demands  a  future,  and  is  therefore  full 
of  peril.  True,  when  I  left  her  I  reproached  myself  for 
my  cowardice  ;  but  1  would  not  write,  and  deferred,  till  I 
saw  her,  all  explanation  of  my  feelings. 

"  Some  months  after,  the  time  arrived  when  I  was  to  em- 
bark for  India.  Captain  Rivers  had  returned,  and  inhabited 
the  beloved  cottage,  and  Alithea  dwelt  with  him.  I  went  to 
see  her  previous  to  my  departure.  My  soul  was  in  tumults : 
I  desired  to  take  her  with  me,  but  that  was  impossible  ;  and 
yet  to  leave  her  thus,  and  go  into  a  far  and  long  exile  away 
from  her,  was  too  frightful.  I  could  not  believe  that  I  could 
exist  without  the  near  hope  and  expectation  of  seeing  her — 
without  that  constant  mingling  of  hearts  which  made  her 
life-blood  but  as  a  portion  of  my  own.  My  resolution  was 
easily  made  to  claim  her  as  mine,  my  betrothed,  my  future 
bride;  and  I  had  a  vague  notion  that,  if  I  were  accepted. 
Captain  Rivers  would  form  some  plan  to  prevent  my  going 
to  India,  or  to  bring  me  back  speedily.  I  arrived  at  the  cot- 
tage, and  the  first  sight  of  her  father  was  painful  to  me. 
He  was  rough  and  uncouth  ;  and  though  proud  of  his  daugh- 
ter, yet  treated  her  with  little  of  that  deference  to  which  she 
had  a  right  even  from  him — the  more  reason,  I  thought,  to 
make  her  mine ;  and  that  very  evening  I  expressed  my 
desire  to  Captain  Rivers :  a  horselaugh  was  the  reply ;  he 
treated  me  partly  as  a  mad  boy,  partly  as  an  impertinent 
beggar.  My  passions  were  roused,  my  indignation  burst  all 
the  fetters  I  sought  to  throw  over  it;  I  answered  haughtily 
— insolently — our  words  were  loud  and  rude ;  I  laughed  at 
his  menaces  and  scoffed  at  his  authority.  I  retorted  scorn 
with  scorn,  till  the  fiery  old  sailor  was  provoked  to  knock 
me  down.  In  all  this  I  thought  not  of  him  in  the  sacred 
character  of  Alithea's  father — I  knew  but  one  parent  for  her; 
she  had,  as  it  were,  joined  us  by  making  us  companions  and 
16 


182  FALKNER. 

friends — both  children  of  her  heart ;  she  was  gone,,  and  the' 
Tude  tyrant  who  usurped  her  place  excited  only  detestation 
and  loaihing,  from  the  insolence  of  his  pretensions.  Still, 
when  he  struck  me,  his  age  and  his  infirmities — for  he  was 
lame — prevented  my  returning  the  blow.  I  rose,  and  folding 
my  arms,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  smile  of  ineffable  con- 
tempt, I  said,  '  Poor,  miserable  man !  do  you  think  to  degrade 
me  by  a  blow?  but  for  pity,  I  could  return  it  so  that  you 
would  never  lift  up  your  head  again  from  that  floor — I  spare 
you — farewell.  You  have  taught  me  one  lesson — I  will  die 
rather  than  leave  Alithea  in  the  hands  of  a  ruffian,  such  as 
you.'  With  these  words  I  turned  on  my  heel,  and  walked 
out  of  the  house. 

"  I  repaired  to  a  neighbouring  public  house,  and  wrote  to 
Alithea,  asking,  demanding  an  interview  ;  I  claimed  it  in  her 
mother's  name.  Her  answer  came,  it  was  wetted  with  her 
tears — dear  gentle  being ! — so  alien  was  her  nature  from  all 
strife,  that  the  very  idea  of  contention  shook  her  dehcate 
frame,  and  seemed  almost  to  unhinge  her  reason.  She 
respected  her  father,  and  she  loved  me  with  an  affection- 
nourished  by  long  companionship  and  sacred  associations. 
She  promised  to  meet  me  if  I  would  abstain  from  again  see- 
ing her  father. 

"  In  the  same  wood,  and  at  the  same  midnight  hour  as. 
when  before  she  came  to  bring  assistance  and  consolation 
to  the  outcast  boy  three  years  before,  I  saw  her  again,  and 
for  the  last  time,  before  I  left  England.  Alithea  had  oae 
fault,  if  such  name  may  be  given  to  a  delicacy  of  structure  that 
rendered  every  clash  of  human  passion  terrifying.  In  phys- 
ical danger  she  could  show  herself  a  heroine ;  but  awaken 
her  terror  of  moral  evil,  and  she  was  hurried  away  beyond 
all  self-command  by  spasms  of  fear.  Thus,  as  she  came 
now  clandestinely,  under  the  cover  of  night,  her  father's  de- 
nunciations still  sounding  in  her  ears — the  friend  of  her  youth 
banished — going  away  for  ever  ;  and  that  departure  dis- 
turbed by  strife,  her  reason  almost  forsook  her — she  was 
bewildered — clinging  to  me  with  tears — yet  fearful  at  every 
minute  of  discovery.  It  was  a  parting  of  anguish.  She  did 
not  feel  the  passion  that  ruled  my  bosom.  Hers  was  a  gen- 
tler, sisterly  feeling ;  yet  not  the  less  intwined  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  her  being,  and  necessary  to  her  existence.  She 
lavished  caresses  and  words  of  endearment  on  me  :  she  could 
not  tear  herself  away ;  yet  she  rejected  firmly  every  idea  of 
disobedience  to  her  father ;  and  the  burning  expressions  of 
my  love  found  no  echo  in  her  bosom. 

"  Thus  we  parted ;  and  a  few  days  afterward  I  was  on 
the  wide  sea,  sailing  for  my  distant  bourn.  At  first  I  had 
felt  disappointed  and  angry ;  but  soon  imagination  shed 
radiance  over  what  had  seemed  chilly  and  dim.  I  felt  her 
dear  head  repose  on  my  heart ;  I  saw  her  bright  eyes  over- 


PALKNER.  183 

brimming  with  tears ;  and  heard  her  sweet  voice  repeat 
again  and  again  her  vow  never  to  forget  lier  brother,  her 
more  than  brother,  her  only  friend ;  the  only  being  left  her 
to  love.  No  wonder  tluU,  during  the  various  changes  of  a 
long  voyage — during  reveries  indulged  endlessly  througli 
<calni  nights,  and  the  mightier  emotions  awakened  by  storm 
and  danger,  iliat  the  memory  of  this  affection  grew  into  a 
conviction  that  I  was  loved,  and  a  belief  that  she  was  mine 
for  ever. 

"  I  am  not  writing  my  life  ;  and,  but  for  the  wish  to  appear 
Jess  criminal  in  my  dear  child's  eyes,  I  had  not  written  a 
word  of  the  foregone  pages,  but  leaped  at  once  to  the  n^ere 
facts  that  justify  poor  Alithea,  and  tell  the  tragic  story  of 
her  death.  Years  have  passed,  and  oblivion  has  swept  away 
all  memory  oT  the  events  of  which  I  speak.  Who  recollects 
the  wise,  white  lady  of  the  secluded  cot,  and  her  hoiui 
daughter'?  This  heart  alone  ;  there  they  live  enshrined.  ]My 
dreams  call  up  their  forms.  I  visit  them  in  my  solitary 
reveries.  I  try  to  forget  the  ensuing  years,  and  to  become 
the  heedless  half-savage  boy  who  listened  with  wonder,  yet 
conviction,  to  lessons  of  virtue  ;  and  to  call  back  th-e  melt- 
ing of  the  heart  which  the  wise  lady's  words  produced,  and 
the  bounding,  wild  joy  I  felt  beside  her  child.  If  there  is  a 
hell,  it  need  no  other  torment  but  memory  to  call  back  such 
scenes  as  these,  and  bid  me  remember  tlie  destruction  that 
ensued. 

"  I  remained  ten  years  in  India,  an  officer  In  a  regiment  of 
the  company's  cavalry.  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  service  ;  went 
•throKgh  much  suffering;  and  doing  my  duty  on  the  field  of 
battle,  or  at  the  hour  of  attack,  I  gained  that  approbation  in 
the  field  which  I  lost  when  in  quarters  by  a  sort  of  system- 
atized insubordination,  which  was  a  part  of  my  untameable 
nature.  In  action  even  I  went  beyond  my  orders — however, 
Ahat  was  forgiven;  but  when  in  quarters,  I  took  p«rt  with 
the  weak,  and  showed  contempt  for  the  powerful.  I  was 
looked  upon  as  dangerous  ;  and  the  more  so,  tliat  the  violence 
of  my  temper  often  made  my  manner  in  a  high  degree 
reprehensible.  1  attached  myself  to  several  natives ;  that 
was  a  misdemeanor.  I  strove  to  inculcate  European  tastes 
and  spirit,  enlightened  views,  and  liberal  policy,  to  one  or 
two  native  princes,  whom,  from  some  ill-luck,  the  English 
governors  wished  to  keep  in  ignorance  and  darkness.  I  was 
for  ever  ent;ingled  in  the  intimacy,  and  driven  to  try  to  serve 
the  oppressed  ;  while  the  affection  I  excited  was  considered 
disaffection  on  my  part  to  the  rulers.  Sometimes  also  I 
met  with  ingratitude  and  treachery :  my  actions  were  mis- 
represented, either  by  prejudice  or  malice ;  and  my  situation, 
of  a  subordinate  officer,  without  fortune,  gave  to  the  influence 
I  acquired,  through  learning  the  language  and  respecting  the 
iiabits  and  feelings  of  the  natives,  an  air  of  something  so 


184  FALKTVER. 

inexplicable,  as  might,  in  the  dark  ages,  have  been  attributed 
to  u'itchcraft,  and  in  these  enlightened  times  was  considered 
a  tendency  to  the  most  dangerous  intrigues.  Having  saved 
an  old  rajah's  life,  and  having  taken  great  pains  to  extricate 
him  from  a  difTii-ulty  in  which  the  Europeans  had  purposely 
entangled  him,  it  became  rumoured  that  I  aspired  to  succeed 
to  a  native  principality,  and  I  was  peren)ptorily  ordered  off 
to  another  station.  My  views  were  in  diametrical  opposi- 
tion to  the  then  Indian  government.  My  conversation  was 
heedless — my  youthful  imagination  exalted  by  native  mag- 
nificence ;  I  own  I  often  dreamed  of  the  practicability  of 
driving  the  merchant  sovereigns  from  Hindostan.  There 
■was,  as  is  the  essence  of  my  character,  much  boyish  folly 
joined  to  dangerous  passion ;  all  of  which  took  the  guise  in 
my  own  heart  of  that  high  heroic  adventure  with  which  I 
longed  to  adorn  my  life.  A  subaltern  in  the  company's 
service,  I  could  never  gain  my  Alithea,  or  do  her  the  honour 
with  which  1  longed  to  crown  her.  The  acquisition  of 
power,  of  influence,  of  station,  would  exalt  me  in  her  father's 
eyes — so  much  of  what  was  selfish  mingled  in  my  conduct 
^but  I  was  too  young  and  impetuous  to  succeed.  Those  in 
power  watched  me  narrowly.  The  elevation  of  a  day  was 
always  followed  by  a  quick  transfer  to  an  unknown  and  dis- 
tant province. 

"  In  all  my  wildest  schemes  the  thought  of  Alithea  reign- 
ed paramount.  My  only  object  was  to  prove  myself  worthy 
of  her;  and  my  only  dream  for  the  future  was  to  make  her 
mine  for  ever. 

"  A  constancy  of  ten  years,  strung  perpetually  up  to  the 
height  of  passion,  may  appear  improbable ;  yet  it  was  so. 
It  was  my  nature  to  hold  an  object  with  tenacious  grasp — 
to  show  a  proud  contempt  of  obstacles — to  resolve  on  ulti- 
mate triumph.  Besides  this,  the  idea  of  Alithea  was  so 
kneaded  up  and  incorporate  with  my  being,  that  my  living 
heart  must  have  been  searched  and  anatomized  to  its  core, 
before  the  portion  bolonging  to  her  could  have  been  divided 
from  the  rest.  1  disdained  the  thought  of  every  other 
woman.  It  was  my  pride  to  look  coldly  on  every  charm, 
and  to  shut  my  heart  against  all  but  Alithea.  During  the 
first  years  of  my  residence  in  India,  I  often  wrote  to  her, 
and  pouring  out  my  soul  on  paper,  I  conjured  her  to  preserve 
herself  for  me.  I  told  her  how  each  solitary  jungle  or 
mountain  ravine  spoke  to  me  of  a  secluded* home  with  her; 
how  every  palace  and  gorgeous  hall  seemed  yet  a  shrine  too 
humble  for  her.  The  very  soul  of  passion  breathed  along 
the  lines  I  traced — they  were  such  as  an  affianced  lover 
would  have  written,  pure  in  their  tenderness  ;  but  heartfelt, 
penetrating,  and  eloquent ;  they  were  my  dearest  comfort. 
After  long,  wearisome  marches — after  the  dangers  of  an 
assault  or  a  skirmish — after  a  day  spent  among  the  sick  or 


FALKNER.  185 

^ying — in  the  midst  of  many  disappointments  and  harassing 
cares — during  the  storms  of  pride  and  the  languor  of  de- 
spair, it  was  my  consolation  to  fly  to  her  image  and  to  recall 
the  tender  hapjiiness  of  reunion — to  endeavour  to  convey  to 
her  how  she  was  my  hope  and  aim — my  fountain  in  the 
desert — 'the  shadowy  tree  to  slielter  me  from  the  burning 
sun — the  soft  breeze  to  refresh  me — the  angelic  visiter  to 
the  unfortunate  martyr.  Not  one  of  these  letters  ever 
reached  her — her  father  destroyed  them  all :  on  his  head  be 
the  crime  and  the  remorse  of  his  daughter's  death !  Fool 
and  coward  !  would  1  shift  to  other  ^shoulders  the  heavy 
weight  1  No  !  no  !  crime  and  remorse  still  link  me  to  her. 
Let  them  eat  into  my  frame  fiery  torture  ;  they  are  better 
than  forgetfulness ! 

"  I  had  two  hopes  in  India  :  one  was,  to  raise  myself  to 
such  a  station  as  would  render  me  worthy  of  Alithea  in  the 
eyes  of  Captain  Rivers ;  the  other,  to  return  to  England — 
to  find  change  there — to  find  love  iu  her  heart — and  to  move 
her  to  quit  all  for  me.  By  turns  these  two  dreams  reigned 
over  me;  I  indulged  in  them  with  complacency — I  returned 
to  them  with  ardour — I  nourished  them  with  perseverance. 
I  never  saw  a  young  Indian  mother  with  her  infant,  but  my 
soul  dissolved  in  tender  fancies  of  domestic  union  and  bliss 
with  Alithea.  There  was  something  in  her  soft  dark  eye, 
and  in  the  turn  of  her  countenance,  purely  eastern  ;  and 
many  a  lovely,  half-veiled  face  I  could  have  taken  for  hers ; 
many  a  slight,  symmetrical  figure,  round,  elegant,  and  deli- 
cate, seemed  her  own,  as,  with  elastic,  undulating  motion, 
they  passed  on  their  way  to  temple  or  feast.  I  cultivated 
all  these  fancies ;  they  nourished  my  fidelity,  and  made  the 
thought  of  her  the  absolute  law  of  my  life. 

"  Ten  years  passed,  and  then  news'came  that  altered  my 
whole  situation.  My  uncle  and  his  only  son  died ;  the 
family  estate  devolved  on  me.  1  was  rich  and  free.  Rich 
in  my  own  eyes,  and  in  the  eyes  of  all  to  whom  competence 
is  wealth.  I  felt  sure  that,  with  this  inheritance,  Captain 
Rivers  would  not  disdain  me  for  his  child.  I  gave  up  my 
commission  immediately,  and  returned  to  England. 

^  England  and  Alithea !  How  balmy,  how  ineffably  sweet 
was  the  idea  of  once  more  beholding  the  rural  spot  where 
she  resided  ;  of  treading  the  woodland  paths  with  her— of 
visiting  her  dear  mother's  grave — of  renewing  our  old 
associations,  and  knitting  our  destinies  inextricably  in  one. 
It  was  a  voyage  of  bliss.  I  longed  for  its  conclusion ;  but 
feeling  that  a  pathway  was  stretched  across  the  ocean,  lead- 
ing even  into  her  very  presence,  I  blessed  each  wave  or 
tract  of  azure  sea  we  passed  over.  The  limitless  Atlantic 
was  my  road  to  her,  and  became  glorified  as  the  vision  ot 
the  Hebrew  shepherd  boy  ;  and  yet  loved  with  the  same 
homefelt  sweetness  3s  that  with  which  I  used  to  regard  the 
16*  ^ 


186  FALKNER. 

lime-tree  walk  that  led  to  her  garden-gate.  I  forgot  the 
years  that  had  elapsed  since  we  met;  it  was  with  difficult^' 
that  I  forced  my  imagination  to  remember  that  1  should  not 
find  her  pale  mother  beside  her  to  sanctify  our  imion. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  On  landing  in  England,  I  at  once  set  off  to  the  far  nor- 
thern county  where  she  resided.  I  arrived  at  the  well- 
known  village ;  all  looked  the  same ;  I  recognised  the  cot- 
tages and  tiieir  flower-gardens,  and  even  some  of  the  elder 
inhabitants  looking,  methought.  no  older  than  when  1  left 
them.  My  heart  hailed  my  return  home  with  rapture,  and 
I  quickened  my  steps  towards  the  cottage.  It  was  shut  up 
and  abandoned.  This  was  the  first  check  my  sanguine  spirit 
had  met.  Hitherto  I  had  not  pronounced  her  name  or 
asked  a  question — I  longed  to  return,  as  from  a  walk,  and 
to  find  all  things  as  I  had  left  it.  Living  in  a  dream,  I  had 
not  considered  the  chances  and  the  storms,  or  even  the 
mere  changes,  of  the  seasons  of  life. 

"  My  pen  lags  in  its  task — I  dilate  on  things  be^  hurried 
over,  yet  they  serve  as  a  screen  between  me  and  fate.  A 
few  inquiries  revealed  the  truth.  Captain  Rivers  was  dead 
— his  daughter  married.  I  had  lived  in  a  fool's  paradise. 
None  of  the  obstacles  existed  that  I  expected  to  meet  and 
conquer,  but  in  their  stead  a  fourfold  brazen  door  had  risen, 
locked,  barred,  and  guarded,  and  I  could  not  even  shake  a 
hinge,  or  put  back  a  bolt. 

"  I  hurried  from  the  fatal  spot ;  it  became  a  hell  to  me. 
And  oh,  to  think  tliat  I  had  lived  in  vain — vainly  dreamed 
of  the  angel  of  my  idolatry,  vainly  hoped — and  most  vainly 
loved  ;  called  her  mine  when  another  held  her,  sold  myself 
to  perpetual  slavery  to  her  shadow,  while  her  living  image 
enriched  the  shrine  of  another's  home  !  The  tempe  t  that 
shook  my  soul  did  not  permit  me  to  give  form,  or,  indeed,  to 
dwell  consecutively  on  such  desolating  thoughts.  As  a 
man  who  arrives  from  a  pleasant  journey,  and  turns  the 
corner  where  he  expects  to  view  the  dwelling  in  which  re- 
pose his  wife,  his  children — all  dear  to  him — and  when  he 
gains  the  desired  spot,  beholds  it  smouldering  in  ashes,  and 
is  told  that  all  are  consumed,  and  that  their  bones  lie  beneath 
the  ruins ;  thus  was  I — my  imagination  had  created  home, 
and  bride,  and  fair  being  sprung  from  her  side,  who  called 
me  father,  and  one  word  defaced  my  whole  future  life  and 
\vidowed  me  for  ever. 

"  Now  began  that  chain  of  incidents  that  led  to  a  deed  I 


PALKNER.  187 

had  not  thought  of.  Incidents  or  accidents  ;  acts,  done  I 
know  not  why ;  nothing  in  themselves  ;  but  meeting,  and 
kindled  by  the  fiery  spirit  that  raged  in  my  bosom,  they  gave 
such  direction  to  its  ruinous  powers  as  produced  the  tra- 
gedy for  ever  to  be  deplored. 

'*  Bewildered  and  overwhelmed  by  the  loss  which  to  me 
had  all  the  novelty  and  keenness  of  a  disaster  of  yesterday, 
though  I  found  that  many  years  had  gone  by  since,  in  re- 
ality, it  was  completed,  I'tled  from  the  spot  I  had  so  fondly 
sought,  and  hurried  up  to  London  on  no  fixed  errand,  with 
no  determined  idea,  yet  vaguely  desiring  to  do  something. 
Scarcely  arrived,  I  met  a  man  whom  I  had  known  in  India. 
He  asked  me  to  dine  with  him,  and  I  complied  ;  because  to 
refuse  would  h:;ve  required  explanation,  and  the  affirmative 
was  more  easily  given.  I  did  not  mean  to  keep  my  en- 
gagement ;  yet  when  the  hour  came,  so  intolerable  had  I 
become  to  myself — so  poignant  and  loathsome  were  my 
thoughts — that  I  went,  so  to  lose  for  a  few  moments  the 
present  sense  of  ill.  It  was  a  bachelor's  dinner,  and  there 
were,  in  addition  to  myself,  three  or  four  other  guests — among 
them  a  Mr.  Neville.  From  the  moment  this  man  opened 
his  lips  to  speak,  I  took  a  violent  dislike  to  him.  He  was, 
and  always  must  have  been,  the  man  whom  among  ten  thou- 
sand I  should  have  marked  out  to  abhor.  He  was  cold, 
proud,  and  sarcastic,  withal  a  decayed  dandy,  turned  cynic 
— who,  half  despising  himself,  tried  wholly  to  disdain  his 
fellow-creatures.  A  man  whose  bosom  never  glowed  with 
a  generous  emotion,  and  who  took  pride  in  the  sagacity 
which  enabled  him  to  detect  worms  and  corruption  in  the 
loveliness  of  virtue.  A  poor,  mean-spirited  fellow,  despite 
his  haughty  outside  ;  and  then  when  he  spoke  of  women, 
how  base  a  thing  he  seemed!  his  disbelief  in  their  excel- 
lence, his  contemptuous  pity,  his  insulting  love,  made  my 
blood  boil.  To  me  there  was  something  sacred  in  a  wo- 
man's very  shadow.  Was  she  evil,  I  regarded  her  with  the 
pious  regret  with  which  I  might  view  a  shrine  desecrated 
by  sacrilegious  hands — the  odour  of  sanctity  still  floated 
around  the  rifled  altar ;  I  never  could  regard  them  as  mere 
fellow-creatures — they  were  beings  of  a  better  species, 
sometimes  gone  astray  in  the  world's  wilderness,  but  always 
elevated  above  the  best  among  us.  For  Alithea's  sake  I 
respected  every  woman.  How  much  good  I  knew  of  them ! 
Generous,  devoted,  delicate — their  very  faults  were  but 
misdirected  virtues  ;  and  this  animal  dared  revile  beings  of 
whose  very  nature  he  could  form  no  conception.  A  burden 
was  lifted  from  my  soul  when  he  left  us. 

" '  It  is  strange,'  said  our  host,  '  that  Neville  should  in- 
dulge in  this  kind  of  talk ;  he  is  married  to  the  most  beau- 
tiful, and  the  best  woman  in  the  world.  Much  younger 
than  himself,  she  yet  performs  her  duties  as  a  wife  with 


288  PALKNER. 

Steadiness  and  cheerfulness ;  lovely  beyond  her  sex,  she  is 
without  its  weakness;  to  please  some  jealous  freak  of  his, 
she  has  withdrawn  herself  from  the  world,  and  buried  her- 
self alive  at  his  seat  in  the  North.  How  she  can  endure  an 
eternal  tete-a-tete  with  that  empty,  conceited,  and  arrogant 
husband  of  hers  is  beyond  any  guessing.' 

"  I  made  some  observation  expressive  of  my  abhorrence 
of  Mr.  Neville's  character,  and  my  friend  continued — '  Dis- 
agreeable and  shallow  as  he  is,  one  would  have  thought  that 
the  society  of  so  superior,  so  perfect  a  woman,  would 
reconcile  him  to  her  sex,  but  I  verily  believe  he  is  jealous 
of  her  surpassing  excellence  ;  and  that  it  is  not  so  much  a  nat- 
ural, and  I  might  almost  call  it  generous,  fear  of  losing  her 
affections,  as  a  dislike  of  seeing  her  admired,  and  knowing 
that  she  is  preferred  to  him,  especially  now  that  he  abso- 
lutely looks  an  old  fellow.  Poor  Alithea  Rivers — hers  is  a 
hard  fate  !' 

"  1  had  a  glass  of  wine  in  my  hand ;  my  convulsive  grasp 
shivered  the  brittle  thing,  but  I  gave  no  other  outward  sign  ; 
before,  I  was  miserable,  I  had  lost  all  that  made  life  dear ;  but 
to  know  that  she  was  lost  to  herself,  bound  for  liie  to  a  hu- 
man brute,  curdled  my  heart's  blood,  and  spread  an  unnat- 
ural chilliness  through  my  frame. 

"  What  a  sacrifice  was  there  ;  a  sacrifice  of  how  much 
more  than  life,  of  the  heart's  sweetest  feelings,  when  a  spirit, 
sent  to  gladden  the  world,  and  cast  one  drop  of  celestial  nec- 
tar into  the  bitterness  of  existence,  was  made  garbage  for 
that  detested  animal ;  from  that  moment,  from  the  moment 
I  felt  assured  that  1  had  seen  Alithea's  husband,  something 
departed  from  the  world,  such  as  I  had  once  known  it, 
never  to  return  again.  A  sense  of  acquiescence  in  the  de- 
crees of  Providence,  of  confidence  in  the  benevolence  and 
beauty  of  the  universe,  of  pride,  despite  all  my  misfortunes, 
in  being  man,  of  pleasure  in  the  loveliness  of  nature,  all  de- 
parted !  I  had  lost  her — that  was  nothing ;  it  was  my  dis- 
aster, but  did  not  injure  the  order  and  grace  of  the  creation; 
she  was,  I  fondly  trusted,  married  to  a  better  man  than  I ; 
but,  bound  to  that  grovelling  and  loathsome  type  of  the 
world's  worst  quahties,  the  devil  usurped  at  once  the  throne 
of  God,  and  life  became  a  hell. 

"' You  are  miserable,  Alithea!  you  must  be  miserable! 
For  you  there  is  no  sympathy,  no  mingling  of  hearts,  no 
generous  confidence  in  anotlier's  esteem  and  kindness,  no 
indulgence  in  golden  imaginations  of  the  beauty  of  life.  You 
are  tied  to  a  foul,  corrupting  corpse.  You  are  cut  off  from 
the  dear  associations  of  the  social  hearth,  from  the  dignified 
sense  of  having  exchanged  virgin  purity  for  a  sweeter  and 
more  valuable  possession  in  another's  heart ;  coldly  and 
listlessly  you  look  on  the  day  which  brings  no  hope  to  you, 
if,  indeed,  you  do  not  rave  and  blaspheme  in  your  despair. 


FALKNER.  189 

Oh !  with  me,  the  brother  of  your  soul,  your  servant,  lover, 
untiring  friend,  how  differently  had  your  lot  been  cast  !' 

"  I  rushed  from  my  friend's  house;  I  entered  no  roof  that 
night ;  my  passions  were  awake,  my  fierce  volcanic  pas- 
sions !  Had  I  encountered  Neville,  I  had  assuredly  mur- 
dered him;  my  soul  was  chaos,  yet  a  tempestuous  ray  gave 
a  dark  light  amid  the  storm ;  a  glimmering,  yet  permanent 
irradiation  mantled  over  the  ruins  among  which  I  stood.  I 
said  to  myself,  'I  am  mad,  driven  to  desperation;'  but,  be- 
neath this  outward  garb  of  my  thought,  I  knew  and  recognised 
an  interior  form.  I  knew  what  I  desired,  what  I  intended, 
and  what,  though  I  tried  to  cheat  myself  into  the  belief  that 
I  wavered,  I  henceforth  steadily  pursued.  There  is,  per- 
haps, no  more  dangerous  mood  of  mind  than  when  we  dog- 
gedly pursue  means,  recklessly  uncertain  of  their  end. 

"  Thus  was  I  led  to  the  fatal  hour  ;  a  life  of  love,  and  a 
sudden  bereavement,  with  such  a  thing  the  instrument  of  my 
ruin !  A  contempt  for  the  order  of  the  universe,  a  stern, 
demoniacal  braving  of  fate,  because  I  would  rule,  and  put 
that  right  which  God  had  let  go  wrong.  Oh,  let  me  not 
again  blaspheme.  God  made  the  stars,  and  the  green  earth, 
within  whose  bosom  Alithealies.  She  also  is  his,  and  I  will 
believe,  despite  the  hellish  interference  that  tainted  and  de- 
flowered her  earthly  life,  that  now  she  is  with  the  source  of 
all  good,  reaping  the  rewai-d  of  her  virtues,  the  compensation 
for  her  suffering.  Else,  why  are  we  created]  To  crawl 
forth,  to  suffer  and  die  ?  I  cannot  believe  it.  Spirit  of  the 
blessed,  Omnipotence  did  not  form  perfection  to  shatter  and 
dissipate  the  elements  like  broken  glass !  But  I  rave  and 
wander;  Ahthea  still  lives  and  suffers  at  the  time  of  which 
I  write,  and  1  erecting  myself  into  a  providence,  resolved  to 
put  that  right  which  was  wrong,  and  cure  the  world's  mis- 
rule. From  that  moment  I  never  paused  to  look  back  ;  I 
set  my  soul  upon  the  cast,  and  I  am  here.  And  Alithea ! 
her  mysterious  grave  you  shall  now  approach. 

"  Bent  upon  a  dangerous  purpose,  fate  led  before  me  an 
mstrument,  without  which  I  should  have  found  it  difficult  to 
execute  my  plan.  I  got  a  letter  from  a  man  in  great  dis- 
tress, asking  for  some  small  help ;  he  was  on  the  point  of 
quitting  England  for  America,  and  working  his  passage ; 
slight  assistance  would  be  of  inestimable  benefit  in  further- 
ing his  plans.  The  petitioner  followed  his  petition  quickly, 
and  was  ushered  in  before  me.  I  scrutinized  his  shrewd 
yet  down-looking  countenance ;  I  scanned  his  supple  yet 
uncertain  carriage ;  I  felt  that  he  was  a  coward,  yet  knew 
he  would  tamper  with  roguery,  in  all  safetj",  for  a  due 
reward.  I  had  known  the  fellow  in  India;  James  Osborne 
was  his  name ;  he  dabbled  in  various  disreputable  money 
transactions,  both  with  natives  and  Englishmen,  and  at  last, 
having  excited  the  suspicion  of  government,  got  thrown  into 


190  FALKNER. 

prison.  He  had  then  written  to  me,  who  was  considered  A 
sort  of  refuge  for  the  destitute,  and  I  went  to  see  him. 
There  was  no  great  harm  in  the  man ;  on  the  contrary,  he 
Avas  soft-hearted  and  humane ;  the  infection  of  dishonesty, 
caught  in  bad  company,  and  fostered  in  poverty,  was  his 
ruin  ;  and  he  joined  to  this  a  strong  desire  to  be  respecta- 
ble, if  he  could  only  contrive  to  subsist  without  double-deal- 
ing. I  thought,  that  by  extricating  him  from  his  embar- 
rassments, and  removing  him  from  temptation,  I  might  save 
him  from  ignominy ;  so  I  paid  his  passage  to  England  ; 
where  he  told  me  that  he  had  friends  and  resources.  But 
his  old  habits  pursued  him,  and  even  now,  though  poverty 
was  the  alleged  motive  for  his  emigration,  I  saw  that  there 
was  secret  fear  of  legal  pursuit  for  dishonest  practices  ;  he 
had  been  inveigled,  he  said,  to  lend  his  name  to  a  transac- 
tion which  turned  out  a  knavish  one.  With  all  this,  Osborne 
was  not  a  villain,  and  scarcely  a  rogue ;  there  was  truth  in 
what  he  said  ;  he  had  always  an  aspiration  for  a  better  place 
in  society,  but  he  saw  no  way  of  attaining  it  except  by  mon- 
ey, and  no  way  of  gaining  money  except  by  cheating. 

"  I  listened  to  his  story.  '  You  are  an  incorrigible  fel- 
low,' said  I.  '  How  can  I  give  ear  to  your  promises  T  Still 
I  am  willing  to  assist  you.  I  am  myself  going  to  America  ; 
you  shall  accompany  me.'  By  degrees  I  afterward  ex- 
plained the  service  I  needed ;  yet  I  only  half  disclosed  the 
truth.  Osborne  never  knew  the  name  or  position  of  the 
lady  who  was  to  be  my  companion  across  the  Atlantic.  A 
man's  notions  of  the  conduct  of  others  are  always  coloured 
by  his  own  ruling  passion.  Osborne  thought  I  was  intent 
on  carrying  off  an  heiress. 

"  With  this  ally  I  proceeded  to  Cumberland — my  mind 
more  intent  on  the  result  of  my  schemes  than  their  inter- 
mediate detail.  I  learned  before  I  went  that  Mr.  Neville 
was  still  in  town.  This  was  a  golden  opportunity,  and  I 
hastened  to  use  it.  I  reached  the  spot  that  Alithea  inhab- 
ited— I  entered  the  outer  gate  of  the  demesne — I  rode  up  to 
the  avenue  that  led  to  the  house — I  was  ushered  into  the 
room  where  I  knew  that  I  should  find  her.  I  summoned 
every  power  to  calm  the  throbbing  of  my  heart.  I  ex- 
pected to  find  her  changed ;  but  when  I  saw  her,  I  discov- 
ered no  alteration.  It  was  strange  that  so  much  of  girlish 
appearance  should  remain.  Her  figure  was  light  and  airy ; 
her  rich  clustering  ringlets  abundant  as  before  ;  her  face — 
it  was  Alithea!  All  herself!  That  soft,  loving  eye — that 
clear  brow  —  those  music-breathing  lips  —  time  had  not 
harmed  her — it  was  herself. 

"  She  did  not  at  once  recognise  me  ;  the  beardless  strip- 
ling was  become  a  weather-beaten,  thought-worn  man  ;  but 
when  I  told  her  who  I  was — ^the  name  so  long  forgotten — 
never  heard  since  last  she  spoke  it,  '  Rupert !'  burst  from 


FALKNER.  ISil 

her  lips — it  united  our  severed  lives ;  and  her  look  of  rap- 
ture, her  accent  all  breathless  with  joy,  told  me  that  her 
heart  was  still  the  same — ardent,  affectionate,  and  true. 

"  We  sat  together,  hand  liniied  in  hand,  looking  at  each 
other  with  undisguised  delight.  At  first,  with  satanic  cun- 
ning, I  assumed  the  brother's  part.  I  questioned  her  con- 
cerning her  fate — her  feelings ;  and  seeing  that  she  was 
averse  to  confess  the  truth  of  her  disappointed,  joyless 
married  state,  I  led  her  back  to  passed  days.  I  spoke  of 
her  dear  mother.  I  said  that  often  had  the  image  of  that 
pale,  wise  spirit  checked,  guided,  and  whispered  sage  les- 
sons to  me  in  my  banishment.  I  recalled  a  thousand  scenes 
of  our  childhood,  when  we  wandered  together — hand  in 
hand — heart  linked  to  heart — confiding  every  pain — avow- 
ing every  wild  or  rebeUious  thought,  or  discussing  the 
mighty  secrets  of  nature  and  of  fate,  which  to  our  young 
hearts  were  full  of  awe  and  mystery,  and  yet  of  beauty  and 
joy.  As  I  spoke,  I  examined  her  more  narrowly.  At  first 
she  had  appeared  to  me  the  same  ;  now  I  marked  a  differ- 
ence. Her  mouth,  the  home  of  smiles,  had  ever  its  sweet, 
benignant  expression ;  but  her  eyes,  there  was  a  heaviness 
in  the  lids,  a  liquid  melancholy  in  their  gaze,  which  said  that 
they  were  acquainted  with  tears ;  her  cheeks,  once  round, 
peachhke,  and  downy,  were  not  fallen,  yet  they  had  lost 
their  rich  fulness.  She  was  more  beautiful ;  there  was  more 
reflection,  more  sentiment  in  her  face  ;  but  there  was  far, 
far  less  happiness.  Before,  smiles  sprung  up  wherever  slie 
turned  to  gaze  ;  now,  an  interest  akin  to  pity  and  tears  made 
the  spectator's  heart  ache  as  he  watched  the  turns  of  a 
countenance  which  was  the  faithful  mirror  of  the  truest 
heart  that  ever  beat.  Worse  than  this,  there  ever  and  anon 
shot  across  her  faceTl  look  that  seemed  like  fear.  Oh,  how 
unlike  the  trusting,  dreadless  Alithea  ! 

"  My  talk  of  other  days  at  first  soothed,  then  excited,  and 
threw  her  off  her  guard.  By  degrees  I  approached  the  ob- 
ject of  all  my  talk,  and  drew  her  to  speak  of  her  father, 
and  the  motives  that  induced  her  marriage.  My  knowledge 
and  vivid  recollections  of  all  that  belonged  to  her  made  her 
unawares  speak,  as  she  liad  not  done  since  we  parted,  the 
undisguised  truth ;  and  before  she  knew  what  she  had  said, 
I  had  led  her  to  confess  that  she  had  never  loved  her  hus- 
band ;  that  she  found  no  sympathy,  and  little  kindness  in 
him ;  that  her  life  had  been  one  of  endurance  of  faults  ahen 
to  her  owu  temperament.  Had  I  been  more  cautious,  I  had 
allowed  this  to  pass  oflF  at  first,  and  won  her  entire  confi- 
dence before  I  laid  bare  my  own  thoughts ;  for  all  she  said 
had  never  before  been  breathed  into  anj' living  ear  but  mine. 
It  was  her  principle  to  submit,  and  to  liide  her  sense  of  her 
husband's  defective  disposition ;  and  had  I  not,  with  a  ser- 
pent's subtlety,  glided  on  imperceptibly ;  had  I  not  brought 


19^  FALKNEB. 

forward  her  mother's  name,  and  the  memory  of  childhood's 
cloudless  years,  she  had  been  mule  with  me.  But  now  I 
could  contain  myself  no  longer.  I  told  her  that  I  had  seen 
the  miserable  being  to  whom  she  was  linked.  I  uttered 
curses  on  the  fate  that  had  joined  them  together.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  my  arm,  and  looking  in  my  face  with  confiding 
innocence,  '  Hush,  Rupert,'  she  said,  '  you  make  me  mean 
more  than  I  would  willingly  have  you  think.  He  is  not  un- 
kind ;  I  have  no  right  to  complain  ;  it  is  not  in  every  man 
that  we  can  find  a  brother's  or  a  friend's  heart.  Neville 
does  not  understand  these  things  ;  but  he  is  my  husband;  as 
such  I  honour  him.' 

"  I  saw  the  internal  feeling  that  led  her  to  speak  thus ;  I 
saw  the  delicate  forbearance  that  filled  her  noble  mind.  She 
thought  of  her  virgin  faith  plighted — long  years  spent  at  his 
side — her  children — her  fidelity,  which,  if  it  had  ceased  to 
cling  to  him,  had  never  wandered,  even  in  thought,  to  an- 
other ;  duties  exemplarily  fulfilled— earnest  strivings  to  for- 
get his  worthlessness.  All  this  honour  for  her  own  pure 
nature,  she  cheated  herself  into  believing  was  honour  paid 
to  him.  I  resolved  to  tear  the  veil  Avhich  her  gentleness 
and  sense  of  right  had  drawn  before  the  truth,  and  I  ex- 
claimed, impetuously,  '  Wrong  yourself  not  so  much,  dear 
girl  !  do  not  fancy  that  your  high  soul  can  really  bow  down 
to  baseness.  You  pay  reverence  to  your  own  sense  of 
duty  ;  but  you  hate — you  must  hate  that  man.' 

"  She  started,  and  her  face  and  neck  became  died  in 
blushes,  proceeding  half  from  anger  at  being  urged  beyond 
her  wish,  half  from  native  modesty  at  hearing  her  husband 
thus  spoken  of.  As  for  myself,  I  grew  mad  as  I  looked  on 
her,  and  felt  the  sweet,  transporting  influences  that,  gathered 
round  ;  here  indeed  was  the  creature  whom  I  had  loved 
through  so  many  years,  who  was  mine  in  my  dreams,  whose 
faith  and  true  affection  I  fancied  I  held  for  ever;  and  she 
was  torn  from  me,  given  away,  not  to  one  who,  like  me, 
knew  and  felt  her  matchless  excellence,  but  to  a  base- 
minded  thing,  from  whom  she  must  shrink  as  from  an  ani- 
mal of  another  species.  All  that  her  soul  contained  of  ele- 
vated thoughts  and  celestial  aspirations,  all  of  generous, 
high,  and  heroic  that  warmed  her  heart,  what  were  they 
before  a  blind,  creeping  worm,  who  held  a  matchless  jewel 
in  his  hand,  and  deemed  it  dross  1  He  even  could  not  un- 
derstand, or  share  the  more  sober  affections — mutual  trust 
and  mutual  forbearance ;  the  utterance  of  love,  the  cares- 
ses of  tenderness,  what  were  these  to  a  wretch  who  saw 
baseness  and  deceit  in  the  most  lofty  and  pure  feelings  of  a 
woman's  heart  1 

"  I  expressed  these  thoughts,  or  rather,  they  burst  from 
me.  She  interrupted  me.  '  I  do  not  deny,'  she  said, '  for  I 
kiiow  not  how  you  have  cheated  me  of  my  secret,  but  that 


FALKNER.  193 

repinings  have  at  times  entered  my  mind ;  and  I  have  shed 
foolish  tears,  to  think  that  the  dreams  of  my  girlhood  were 
as  a  bright  moniing,  quickly  followed  by  a  diin,  cloudy  day. 
But  I  have  reproved  myself  for  this  discontent,  and  you  do 
very  wrong  to  revive  it ;  the  heart  will  rebel,  but  rehgion, 
and  philosophy,  and  the  very  tears  I  shed,  sooth  its  ruffled 
mood,  and  make  me  remember  that  we  do  not  live  to  be 
happy,  but  to  perform  our  duties ;  to  fulfil  mine  is  the  aim 
of  my  life  ;  teach  me  how  to  do  that  more  completely, 
more  entirely  to  resign  myself,  and  you  will  be  my  bene- 
factor. It  is  true  that  my  husband  does  not  understand  the 
childish  overflowings  of  my  heart,  which  is  too  ready  to 
seek  its  joys  among  the  clouds ;  he  does  not  dwell  with 
rapture  on  the  thoughts  and  sentiments  which  give  me  so 
much  life  and  happiness — he  is  a  stronger  and  sterner  na- 
ture ;  a  slower  one  also,  I  acknowledge,  one  less  ready  to 
sympathize  and  feel.  But  if  I  have  in  my  intercourse  with 
him  regretted  that  lively,  cheering  interchange  of  senti- 
ment which  I  enjoyed  with  you,  you  are  now  here  to  be- 
stow it,  and  my  life,  hitherto  defective,  your  return  may 
render  complete.' 

"  I  laughed  bitterly.  '  Poor  innocent  bird,'  I  cried ;  '  think 
you  at  once  to  be  free,  and  in  a  cage  ?  at  once  to  feel  the 
fowler's  grasp,  and  fly  away  to  heaven  ?  Ahthea,  you  mis- 
erably deceive  yourself;  hitherto  you  have  but  half  guessed 
the  secrets  of  a  base  grovelling  spirit — have  you  never  seen 
your  husband  jealous  V 

"  She  shuddered — and  I  saw  a  spasm  of  exquisite  pain 
cloud  her  features  as  she  averted  her  head  from  me,  and 
the  look  of  trembling  fear  I  had  before  remarked  crept  over 
her.  I  was  shocked  to  see  so  much  of  the  slave  had  en- 
tered her  soul.  I  told  her  this ;  I  told  her  she  was  being 
degraded  by  the  very  duties  which  she  was  devoting  herself, 
body  and  soul,  to  perform  ;  I  told  her  that  she  must  be  free; 
she  looked  wonderingly,  but  I  continued.  '  Is  not  the  very 
name  of  liberty  dear  and  exhilarating  1  does  it  not  draw  you 
irresistibly  onward  ?  is  not  the  very  thought  of  casting  your 
heavy  chains  from  off  you  full  of  new  and  inexpressible 
joy  1  Poor  prisoner,  do  you  not  yearn  to  breathe  without 
a  fear]  would  you  not  with  transport  escape  from  your 
jailer  to  a  home  of  love  and  freedom  V 

"  Hitherto  she  had  fancied  that  I  but  regretted  her  sor- 
rows as  she  did,  and  repined  as  she  did  over  a  fate  whose 
real  miserj'^  slie  alone  could  entirely  feel ;  she  repented 
having  spoken  so  openly — yet  she  loved  me  for  my  un- 
feigned sympathy ;  but  now  she  saw  that  something  more 
was  meant ;  she"  looked  earnestly  at  me,  as  if  to  read  ray 
heart;  she  saw  its  wishes  in  my  eyes,  and  shrunk  from 
them  as  from  a  snake,  as  she  exclaimed,  '  Never,  dear  Ru- 
17  I 


194  FALKNER. 

pert,  speak  thus  to  me  again,  or  we  must  again  part — I  have 
a  son.' 

"  The  radiance  of  angelic  love  lighted  up  her  face  as  she 
uttered  these  words ;  and  then,  my  error  and  weakness 
being  her  strength,  she  resumed  the  self-possession  she  had 
lost  during  our  previous  conversation;  with  bewitching 
grace  she  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  and  in  a  voice  modula- 
ted by  the  soul  of  persuasion,  said,  '  Let  us  be  friends,  Ru- 
pert, such  as  we  once  were,  brother  and  sister ;  I  will  not 
bt  Hevc  that  you  are  returned  only  to  pain  and  injure  me — I 
am  happy  in  my  children — stay  but  a  little,  and  you  will  see 
how  foolish  I  have  been  to  complain  at  all.  You  also  will 
love  my  boy.' 

"  Would  you  not  think  that  these  words  had  sufficed  to 
cure  my  madness  and  banish  every  guilty  project]  Had 
you  seen  her,  her  inimitable  grace  of  attitude,  the  blushing, 
tender  expression  of  her  face,  and  her  modest,  earnest  man- 
ner, a  manner  which  spoke  the  maternal  nature,  such  as 
Catholics  imagine  it,  without  a  tincture  of  the  wife,  a 
girlish,  yet  enthusiastic  rapture  at  the  very  thought  of  her 
child,  you  would  have  known  that  every  scheme  I  medita- 
ted was  riveted  faster,  every  desire  to  make  her  my  own 
for  ever  more  fixed  and  eager.  I  went  on  to  urge  her,  till 
I  saw  every  feature  give  token  of  distress ;  and  at  last  she 
suddenly  left  me,  as  if  unable  any  longer  to  bear  my  perti- 
nacity. She  left  me  without  a  word,  but  I  saw  her  face 
bathed  in  tears.  I  was  indeed  insane.  These  tears,  which 
sprung  from  anguish  of  soul  to  think  that  her  childhood's 
companion  should  thus  show  himself  an  injurer  instead  of 
a  friend,  I  interpreted  into  signs  of  relenting — into  a  strug- 
gle with  her  heart. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"  I  CALLED  again  the  following  morning,  but  she  was  de- 
nied to  me ;  twice  this  happened.  She  ftSared  me,  I  be- 
lieved ;  and  still  more  franticly  I  was  driven  to  continue 
my  persecutions.  I  wrote  to  her ;  she  did  not  answer  my 
letters.  I  entered  the  grounds  of  her  house  clandestinely ;  "l 
lay  in  wait  for  her ;  I  resolved  to  see  her  again.  At  length 
one  afternoon  I  found  her  alone,  walking  and  musing  in  the 
more  solitary  part  of  the  park ;  I  stood  suddenly  before  her, 
and  her  first  emotion  was  pleasure,  so  true  Avas  she  to  her 
affections,  so  constant  to  her  hope  that  at  last  I  should  be 
persuaded  not  to  pain  her  by  a  renewal  of  my  former  con- 
versation. But  I  believed  that  I  had  a  hold  on  her  that  I  would 
not  forego.     When  she  offered  to  renew  our  childhood's 


FALKNER.  195 

compact  of  friendship,  I  asked  her  how  that  could  be  if  she 
refused  me  her  confidence  ;  I  asked  hov/  she  could  promise 
me  happiness,  whose  every  hope  was  bliglited.  I  told  her 
that  it  was  my  firm  conviction  that  her  mother  had  intended 
us  for  one  another,  that  she  had  brouglit  her  up  for  me, 
given  her  to  me,  and  that  thus  she  was  indeed  mine.  Her 
eyes  flashed  fire  at  this.  '  j\Iy  mother,'  she  said,  '  brought 
me  up  for  a  higher  purpose  than  even  conducing  to  your 
happiness.  She  brought  me  up  to  fulfil  my  duties,  to  be  a 
mother  in  my  turn.  1  do  not  deny,'  she  continued,  '  that  I 
share  in  some  sort  my  motlier's  fate,  and  am  more  mater- 
nal tlian  wife-like  ;  and  as  I  fondly  wish  to  resemble  her  in 
all  her  virtues,  I  will  not  repine  at  the  circumstances  that 
lead  me  rather  to  devote  my  existence  to  my  cliildren,  than 
to  be  that  most  blessed  creature,  a  happy  wife — I  do  not 
ask  for  that  happiness ;  I  am  contented  with  my  lot ;  my 
vei-y  girlish,  romantic  repinings  do  not  really  make  me  un- 
happy.' 

"  '  Nor  your  fears,  nor  his  base  jealousy,  his  selfishness, 
his  narrow  soul,  and  brutish  violence?  I  know  more  than 
you  think,  Alithea — I  read  your  heart — you  must  be  miser- 
able;  submissive,  yet  tyrannized  over;  wedded  to  your 
duty,  yet  watched,  suspected,  accused.  There  are  traces 
of  tears  on  your  cheeks,  my  poor  girl ;  your  neck  is  bowed 
by  the  yoke,  your  eyes  have  no  longer  the  radiance  of  con- 
scious rectitude,  and  yet  you  are  innocent.' 

"  '  God  knows  I  am,'  she  replied,  as  a  sliower  of  tears  fell 
from  her  eyes — but  she  was  ashamed,  and  brushed  them 
away — '  I  am,  and  will  be,  Rupert,  though  you  would  mis- 
lead me.  Where,  indeed,  can  I  find  a  consciousness  of  rec- 
titude, except  in  my  heart  ?  My  husband  mistrusts  me,  I 
acknowledge  it — by  torture  j'ou  force  the  truth — he  does 
not  understand,  and  you  would  pervert  me ;  in  God  and  my 
own  heart  I  put  my  trust,  and  1  will  never  do  that  which  my 
conscience  tells  me  is  wrong — and  despite  both  I  shall  be 
happy.  A  mother  is,  in  my  eyes,  a  more  sacred  name  than 
wife.  My  life  is  wrapped  in  my  boy;  in  him  I  find  blame- 
less joy,  though  all  the  rest  pierce  my  heart  with  with  poi- 
soned arrows.' 

" '  You  shall,  sweet  Alithea,'  I  cried,  '  preserve  him,  and 
every  other  blessing.  You  were  not  born  to  inherit  this 
maimed,  poverty-stricken  life,  the  widowed  mother  of  an 
orphan  child — such  are  you  now  ;  I  will  be  a  father  to  him 
for  your  sake,  and  many  other  joys  will  be  yours,  and  the 
fondest,  truest  heart  that  ever  warmed  man's  bosom  shall 
be  all  your  own.  Alithea,  you  must  not  offer  yourself  up 
a  living  sacrifice  to  that  base  idol,  but  belong  to  one  whose 
love,  and  honour,  and  eternal  devotion  merit  you,  though  he 
possess  no  other  claim.  Let  me  save  you  from  him,  I  ask 
no  more.' 

12 


196  FALKNER. 

"  I  felt  a  tear,  for  many  long  years  forgotten,  steal  down 
my  cheek — my  heart  worshipped  her  excellence,  and  pity 
and  grief  mingled  with  my  deep  regrets ;  she  saw  how  sin- 
cerely I  was  moved,  and  tried  to  comfort  me.  She  wept 
also,  for,  despite  her  steadier  thoughts,  she  knew  the  cru- 
elty of  her  destiny,  and  I  do  believe  her  heart  yearned  to 
taste,  once  more  before  she  died,  the  full  joy  of  complete 
sympathy.  But,  if  indeed  her  tears  were  partly  shed  for 
herself,  yet  she  never  wavered ;  she  deplored  my  unhappi- 
ness,  but  she  reproved  my  perversion  of  principle  ;  she  tried 
to  awaken  patience,  piety,  or  philosophic  fortitude — any  of 
the  noble  virtues  that  might  enable  me  to  combat  the  pas- 
sion by  which  I  was  enslaved. 

"  Time  was  forgotten  as  we  thus  talked  with  the  same 
openness  of  heart  as  in  former  days,  yet  those  hearts  how 
saddened  and  wounded  since  then !  I  would  not  let  her 
go :  while  the  moon  rose  high,  shedding  its  silvery  light 
over  the  forest  trees,  and  casting  dark  shadows  on  our  path, 
still  we  indulged  in  what  she  deemed  our  last  conference. 
As  I  must  answer  my  crimes  before  God,  I  swear  I  could 
discern  no  wavering  thought,  no  one  idea  that  strayed  to 
the  forbidden  ground,  towards  which  I  strove  to  lead  her. 
She  told  me  that  she  had  intended  not  to  see  me  again  till 
her  husband  returned  ;  she  said  that  she  must  implore  me 
not  again  to  seek  her  in  this  way,  or  I  should  make  her  a 
prisoner  in  her  house.  I  listened — I  answered,  I  knew  not 
what — I  was  more  resolved  than  ever  not  to  lose  he^ — de- 
spite all,  I  still  was  mad  enough  to  hope.  She  left  me  at 
last,  hoping  to  have  conquered,  yet  resolved  not  to  see  me 
again,  she  said,  till  her  husband  returned.  This  determina- 
tion on  her  part  was  in  absolute  contradiction  to  what  I  re- 
solved should  be.  I  had  decreed  to  see  her  again ;  nay, 
more,  I  would  see  her,  not  witliin  the  precincts  of  her 
home,  where  all  spoke  against  me  ;  but  where  she  should 
be  free,  where,  seeing  nothing  to  remind  her  of  the  heavy 
yoke  to  which  she  bent  her  neck,  I  fondly  dreamed  I  might 
induce  her  wholly  to  throw  it  aside.  If  it  so  pleased  her,  I 
would  detain  her  but  a  few  short  hours,  and  restore  her  to 
her  home  in  all  liberty ;  but,  could  I  induce  her  to  assert 
her  freedom,  and  follow  me  voluntarily — then — to  think 
that  possible,  the  earth  reeled  under  me,  and  my  passion 
gained  strength  from  its  very  folly. 

"  I  prepared  all  things  for  my  plan ;  I  went  to  Liverpool, 
and  bought  two  fleet  horses  and  a  light  foreign  caleche 
suited  to  my  purpose.  Returning  northward  towards  Dro- 
more,  I  sought  a  sohtary  spot,  for  the  scene  of  our  last  in- 
terview, or  of  the  first  hour  of  my  lasting  bliss.  What 
more  solitary  than  the  wild  and  drear  seashore  of  the  south 
of  Cumberland  ]  Landward  it  is  screened  by  a  sublime 
back-ground  of  mountains  ;  but  in  itself  presenting  to  the 


FALKNER.  197 

view  a  wide  extent  of  uninhabited  sands,  intersected  by 
rivers  which,  when  the  tide  is  up,  present  a  dreary  expanse 
of  shallow  water,  and  at  ebb  are  left,  except  in  the  chan- 
nels of  the  rivers,  a  barren  extent  of  mud  and  marsh;  the 
surrounding  waste  being  variegated  only  by  a  line  of  sand- 
hills thrown  up  to  the  height  of  thirty  or  forty  feet,  shutting 
in  tiie  view  from  shore,  while  seaward  no  boat  appeared 
ever  to  spread  its  sail  on  that  lonely  sea.  On  these  sands, 
near  the  mouth  of  one  of  the  rivers,  there  was  a  small  hut 
deserted,  but  not  in  ruins ;  it  was  probably  occasionally  in- 
habited by  guides  who  are  used  in  this  part  of  the  country 
to  show  the  track  of  the  fords  when  the  tide  is  full,  and  any 
deviation  from  the  right  path  is  attended  by  peril,  the  beds 
of  the  rivers  being  full  of  ruts  and  deep  holes ;  that  hut  I 
selected  as  the  spot  where  all  should  be  determined.  If 
she  consented  to  accompany  me,  we  would  proceed  rapidly 
forward  to  Liverpool,  and  embark  for  America ;  if  she  re- 
solved to  return,  this  spot  was  but  five  miles  from  her 
home,  and  I  could  easily  lead  her  back  without  suspicion 
being  excited.  I  was  anxious  to  put  my  scheme  in  execu- 
tion, as  her  husband  was  sliortly  expected. 

"  It  seemed  a  feasible  one.  In  my  own  heart  I  did  not 
expect  to  induce  her  to  forsako-  her  home  ;  but  I  might; 
and  the  very  doubt  maddened  me.  And  if  I  did  not,  yet 
for  a  few  hours  to  have  her  near  me,  not  in  any  spot  that 
called  her  detested  husband  master,  but  in  the  wide,  free 
scenes  of  nature,  the  ocean,  parent  of  all  liberty,  spread 
at  our  feet;  the  way  easy  to  escape,  no  eye,  no  ear,  to 
watch  and  spy  out  the  uncontrolled  and  genuine  emotions 
of  her  heart,  or  no  hand  to  check  our  progress  if  she  con- 
sented to  follow.  In  this  plan  Osborne,  whom  I  had  left  at 
the  miserable  town  of  Ravenglass — and  who,  indeed,  had 
been  the  man  to  find  and  point  out  to  me  the  solitary  hut, 
was  necessary.  My  explanation  and  directions  to  him  were 
few  and  peremptory  :  he  was  to  appear  with  the  caleche, 
he  acting  as  postillion,  at  a  certain  spot ;  the  moment  he 
saw  me  arrive,  as  soon  as  I  had  placed  the  lady  who  was 
to  be  my  companion  in  the  carriage,  he  was  to  put  spurs  to 
his  horses,  and  not  by  any  cry  of  hers,  nor  command  of 
mine,  nor  interference  of  strangers,  to  be  induced  to  stop 
till  he  reached  the  hut :  there  she  should  be  free ;  till  then 
I  would  have  her  a  prisoner  even  beyond  my  ow^n  control, 
lest  her  entreaties  should  cheat  me  out  of  my  resolves. 
Osborne  looked  frightened  at  some  portion  of  these  orders, 
but  I  glossed  over  any  inconsistency ;  my  bribe  was  high, 
and  he  submitted. 

"  At  every  step  I  took  in  this  mad  and  gtiilty  scheme,  I 

became  more  resolved  to  carry  it  on.     Here  is  my  crime — 

here  the  tale  of  sin,  I  have  to  relate.     The  rest  is  disaster 

and  endless  remorse.    What  moved  me  to  this  height  of  in- 

17* 


198  FALKNER. 

sanity — what  blinded  me  to  the  senseless  as  well  as  the  un- 
pardonable nature  of  my  design,  I  cannot  tell ;  except  that, 
for  years,  I  had  lived  in  a  dream,  and  waking  in  the  real 
world,  1  refused  to  accommodate  myself  to  its  necessities, 
but  resolved  to  bend  its  laws  to  my  desires.  I  loved  Ali- 
thea — I  had  loved  her  through  years  of  absence ;  she  was 
the  wife  of  my  reveries,  my  hopes,  my  heart.  I  could  no 
more  part  with  the  thought  of  her  as  such,  than  with  a  con- 
sciousness of  my  own  identity.  To  see  her  married  and  a 
mother,  might  be  supposed  capable  of  dissipating  these 
fancies  ;  far  from  it.  Her  presence,  her  beauty,  the  witch- 
ery of  her  eye,  her  heart-subduing  voice,  her  sensibility,  the 
perfection  of  her  nature,  which  her  inimitable  loveliness 
only  half  e.rpressed,  but  which  reached  my  soul,  through  a 
sort  of  inner  sense  that  acknowledged  it  with  worship  ;  all 
this  added  to  my  phrensy,  and  steeped  me  to  the  very  lips 
in  intoxication. 

"  What  right  had  I  to  call  this  matchless  creature  mine  ■? 
None  !  That  I  acknowledged— but  that  he,  the  man  without 
a  soul,  the  incarnate  Behal,  should  claim  her,  was  not  to  be 
endured.  Mad  as  I  was,  I  aver,  and  He  who  reads  all  hearts 
be  now  my  testimony,  that  it  was  more  my  wish  to  set  her 
free  from  him  than  to  bii^d  her  to  myself,  that  urged  me  on. 
I  had  in  the  solitary  shades  of  her  park,  during  the  argu- 
ments and  struggles  of  our  last  interview,  sworn,  that  if  she 
would  suffer  me  to  take  her,  and  her  boy  too  if  she  chose, 
away  from  him,  I  would  place  her  in  some  romantic  spot, 
build  a  home  worthy  of  her,  surrounded  with  all  the  glory 
of  nature,  and  only  see  her  as  a  servant  and  a  slave.  I 
pledged  my  soul  to  this,  and  I  would  have  kept  my  oath. 
Those  who  have  not  loved  may  look  on  this  as  the  very 
acme  of  my  hallucination  ;  it  might  be — I  cannot  tell — but 
so  it  was. 

"  All  was  ready  ;  and  1  wrote  to  her  to  meet  me  for  the 
last  time.  In  this  also  I  was,  in  one  sense,  sincere  ;  for  I  had 
determined,  if  I  should  fail  in  my  persuasions,  never  to  see 
her  more.  She  came,  but  several  hours  later  than  I  in- 
tended, which,  to  a  certain  degree,  deranged  my  plans. 
The  weather  had  a  sultriness  about  it  all  day,  portending 
storm,  occasioning  a  slate  of  atmosphere  that  operates  to 
render  the  human  frame  uneasy  and  restless.  I  paced  the 
lane  that  bounded  the  demesnes  of  Dromore  for  hours ;  I 
threw  myself  on  a  grassy  bank.  The  rack  in  the  upper  sky 
sped  along  with  fearful  impetuosity  ;  it  traversed  the  heav- 
ens from  west  to  east,  driven  by  a  furjous  wind  which  had 
not  yet  descended  to  us  ;  for  below  on  earth,  no  breath  of 
air  moved  the  herbage,  or  could  be  perceived  amid  the  top- 
most boughs  of  the  trees.  Everything  in  nature,  acted 
upon  by  these  contrary  influences,  had  a  strange  and  wild 
appearance.    The  sun  descended  red  towards  the  ocean 


FALKNER.  199 

before  Aliihea  opened  tlie  private  gate  of  the  grounds,  and 
stood  in  all  her  loveliness  before  me. 

"  She  brought  her  son  with  her.  At  first  this  annoyed  me  ; 
but  at  a  second  thought  it  seemed  to  render  my  whole  design 
more  conclusive.  She  had  spoken  of  this  child  with  such 
rapture  that  it  would  have  been  a  barbarity  beyond  my  act- 
ing to  separate  her  from  him.  By  making  him  her  com- 
panion, she  completed  my  purpose  ;  I  would  take  them  away 
together.  I  met  her,  I  thought,  with  self-possession,  but 
she  read  the  conflict  of  passion  in  my  face,  and,  half  fearful, 
asked  what  disturbed  me.  I  attributed  my  agitation  to  our 
approaching  parting ;  and  drawing  her  hand  through  my 
arm,  walked  forward  along  the  lane.  At  the  moment  of 
executing  my  project,  its  wickedness  and  cruelty  became 
so  apparent,  that  a  thousand  times  I  was  about  to  confess 
all,  solicit  her  forgiveness,  and  leave  her  for  ever :  but  that 
hardness,  which  in  the  ancient  religions  is  deemed  the 
immediate  work  of  God,  crept  over  my  heart,  turning  its 
human  misgiving  to  stony  resolution.  I  endeavoured  to 
close  every  aperture  of  my  soul  against  the  relenting  moods 
that  assailed  me  ;  yet  they  came  with  greater  power  each 
time,  and  at  length  wholly  mastering  me,  I  consented  to  be 
subdued.  I  determined  to  relinquish  my  schemes,  to  bid 
her  an  eternal  adieu  ;  and,  moved  by  self-pity  at  the  desolate 
lot  I  was  about  to  encounter,  I  spoke  of  separation  and  ab- 
sence, and  the  death  of  hope  with  such  heartfelt  pathos  as 
moved  her  to  tears. 

"  Surely  there  is  no  greater  enemy  to  virtue  and  good  in- 
tentions than  that  want  of  self-command,  the  exterior  of 
which,  though  I  had  acquired,  no  portion  existed  in  the 
inner  substance  of  my  mind.  Calm,  proud,  and  stern 
as  I  seemed  to  others,  capable  of  governing  the  vehe- 
mence of  my  temper,  within  I  was  the  same  slave  of  passion 
I  had  ever  been.  I  never  could  force  myself  to  do  the 
thing  I  hated ;  I  never  could  persuade  myself  to  relinquish 
the  thing  I  desired.  There  is  the  secret  of  my  crimes ; 
there  the  vice  of  my  disposition,  which  produced  for  her  I 
loved  a  miserable  death,  and  for  myself  endless,  unuttera- 
ble wo.  For  a  moment  I  had  become  virtuous  and  heroic. 
We  reached  the  end  of  tlie  lane — my  emissary  appeared 
with  the  carriage.  I  had  worked  myself  up  by  this  time  to 
determine  to  restore  her  to  her  home  ;  to  part  with  her  for 
ever.  She  believed  this.  The  despair  written  on  my  brow 
— my  sombre,  mute,  yet  heart-broken  mien — my  thoughts 
which  had  totally  relinquished  their  favourite  project,  and 
consented  to  be  widowed  of  her  for  ever,  expressed  in  brief, 
passionate  sentences,  proved  to  her,  who  had  never  sus- 
pected that  I  meant  otherwise,  that  1  took  my  last  look  and 
spoke  ray  last  words.  We  reached  the  end  of  the  lane ; 
Osborne  drove  up.    'Be  not  sui-prised,'  I  sajd.    '  Yej^it  is 


SOO  FALKNER. 

there,  Alithea ;  the  carriage  that  is  to  convey  me  far,  far 
away.     Gracious  God,  do  1  live  to  see  this  hour  !' 

"  The  carriage  stopped ;  we  walked  up  to  it.  A  devil  at 
that  moment  whispered  in  my  ear,  a  devil,  who  feeds  on 
human  crimes  and  groans,  prompted  my  arm.  Coward  and 
doll!  to  use  such  words — my  own  hellish  mind  was  the 
sole  instigator.  In  a  moment  it  was  done.  I  lifted  her 
light  figure  into  the  carriage ;  I  jumped  in  after  her;  I  bade 
her  boy  follow.  It  was  too  late.  One  cry  from  him,  one 
long,  piercing  shriek  from  her,  and  we  were  gone.  With 
the  swiftness  of  the  winds  we  descended  the  eminence 
towards  the  shore,  and  left  child  and  all  return  far  behind. 

"  At  that  moment  the  storm  burst  over  us ;  but  the  thun- 
der was  unheard  amid  the  rattling  of  the  wheels.  Even  her 
cries  were  lost  in  the  i^iiroar ;  but,  as  the  thickening  clouds 
changed  twilight  into  niglit,  the  vivid  lightning  showed  me 
Alithea  at  my  feet,  in  convulsions  of  fear  and  anguish. 
There  was  no  help.  I  raised  her  ia  my  arms ;  and  she 
struggled  in  them  without  meaning,  without  knowledge. 
Spasin  succeeded  to  spasm ;  I  saw  them,  by  the  flashes  of 
the  frequent  lightning,  distort  her  features  with  agony,  but 
I  could  not  even  hear  her  groans ;  tlie  furious  haste  at 
which  we  went,  the  thunder  from  above,  the  plash  of  the 
rain,  suspended  only  by  the  bowlings  of  the  rising  wind, 
drowned  every  other  sound.  I  called  to  Osborne  to  stop ; 
he  gave  no  heed  to  my  cries.  Methought  the  horses  had 
taken  fright,  and  held  the  bit  in  their  teeth,  with  such  un- 
imaginable speed  we  swept  along.  The  roar  of  ocean,  torn 
up  by  the  wild  west  wind,  now  mingled  with  the  universal 
uproar — hell  had  broken  loose  upon  earth — yet  what  was 
every  other  and  more  noisy  tempest  compared  to  that  which 
shook  my  soul,  as  I  pressed  Alithea  to  my  heart  in  agony, 
vainly  hoping  to  see  the  colour  revisit  her  cheeks,  and  her 
dear  eyes  open !  Was  she  already  a  corpse  1  I  tried  to 
feel  her  breath  upon  my  cheek ;  but  the  speed  of  our 
course,  and  tlie  uproar  of  the  elements,  prevented  my  being 
able  to  ascertain  whether  she  was  alive  or  dead.  And  thus 
I  bore  her — thus  I  made  her  my  bride,  thus  I,  her  worship- 
per, emptied  the  vials  of  pain  on  her  beloved  head ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  At  last  I  became  aware  that  the  wheels  of  the  carriage 
passed  through  water.  Hope  revived  with  the  thought. 
The  hut  where  Osborne  was  to  stop  was  to  the  south  of 
the  river  we  were  now  crossing :  the  tide  was  ebbing,  and, 


FALKNER.  gOl 

despite  the  wind  and  storm,  we  passed  the  ford  in  safety;  a 
moment  more,  and  the  carriage  stopped  amid  tlie  sands.  I 
took  the  unfortunate  lady  in  my  arms,  and  carried  her  into 
the  hut ;  then,  fetching  the  cushions  of  the  carriage,  I  bade 
Osborne  take  the  liorses  on  to  a  covered  shed  about  half  a 
mile  off,  which  he  had  prepared  for  them,  and  return  im- 
mediately. 

"  1  re-entered  the  hut — still  Alithea  lay  motionless  on 
the  ground  where  I  had  placed  her.  The  lightning  showed 
m*^  her  pale  face ;  and  another  flash  permitted  me  to  dis- 
cover a  portion  of  luggage  brought  liere  by  Osborne — neces- 
sary if  we  fled.  Among  other  things  which,  soldier-like,  I 
always  carried  with  me,  I  saw  my  canteen ;  it  contained 
the  implements  for  striking  a  light,  and  tapers.  By  such 
means  I  could  at  last  discover  that  my  victim  still  lived ; 
and  sometimes  also  slie  groaned  and  sighed  heavily.  What 
had  happened  to  her  I  could  not  tell,  nor  by  what  means 
consciousness  might  be  restored.  I  chafed  her  head  and 
hands  in  spirituous  waters ;  I  made  her  swallow  some — in 
vain.  For  a  moment  she  somewhat  revived,  but  relapsed 
again ;  and  the  icy  cold  of  her  hands  and  feet  seemed  to 
portend  instant  dissolution.  Osborne  returned,  as  I  had  or- 
dered ;  he  was  totally  unaware  of  the  state  to  which  my 
devilish  machinations  had  brought  my  victim.  He  found 
me  hanging  over  her — calling  her  by  every  endearing  name 
— chafing  her  hands  in  mine — watching  in  torture  for  such 
signs  of  returning  sense  as  would  assure  me  that  I  was  not 
about  to  see  her  expire  before  my  eyes.  He  was  scared  by 
what  he  saw  ;  but  I  silenced  him,  and  made  him  light  a  fire, 
and  heat  sand,  which  I  placed  at  her  feet ;  and  then,  by  de- 
grees, with  help  of  large  doses  of  sal-volatile  and  other 
drugs,  circulation  was  restored.  She  opened  her  eyes  and 
gazed  wildly  round,  and  tears  gushed  from  under  the  lids  in 
large  slow  drops!  My  soul  blessed  God!  Every  mad  de- 
sire and  guilty  scheme  had  faded  before  the  expectation  of 
her  death.  All  I  asked  of  Heaven  was  her  life,  and  leave 
to  restore  her  to  her  child  and  her  home.  Heaven  granted, 
as  I  thought,  my  prayer.  The  livid  streaks  which  had  set- 
tled round  her  mouth  and  eyes  disappeared ;  her  features 
lost  the  rigidity  of  convulsions,  a  slight  colour  tinged  her 
cheeks ;  her  hands,  late  chill  and  stiflf,  now  had  warmth  and 
voluntary  motions  of  their  own.  Once  or  twice  she  looked 
round  and  tried  to  speak.  '  Gerard !'  that  word,  the  name 
of  her  boy,  was  murmured ;  1  caught  the  sound  as  I  bent 
eagerly  over  her.  '  He  is  safe — he  is  well,'  I  whispered. 
'All  is  well;  be  comforted,  Alithea.'  The  poor  victim 
smiled;  yes,  her  own  sweet  smile  dawned  upon  her  face. 
She  too  is  safe,'  I  thought.  Once  again  I  felt  my  heart 
beat  freely  and  at  ease. 

"  She  continued,  however,  in  a  state  of  torpor.  There 
13 


;802  FALKNER. 

were  two  rooms  in  the  hut.  I  prepared  a  sort  of  couch  for 
her  in  the  inner  one.  I  placed  her  on  it ;  I  covered  her 
with  her  cloak.  By  degrees  the  sort  of  insensibility  in 
which  she  sunk  changed  to  sleep.  We  left  her  then,  and 
sat  watching  in  the  outer  room.  I  kept  my  eyes  fixed  on 
her,  and  saw  that  each  hour  added  to  the  tranquillity  of  her 
repose  ;  I  could  not  hear  her  breathe  ;  for  though  the  thun- 
der and  rain  had  ceased,  the  wind  howled  and  the  near 
ocean  roared ;  its  billows,  driven  by  the  western  gale,  en- 
croached upon  the  sands  almost  to  the  threshold  of  the  hut. 

"  A  revulsion  had  taken  place  within  me  ;  I  felt  that  there 
was  something  dearer  to  me  than  the  fulfilment  of  my 
schemes,  which  was  her  life.  She  appeared  almost  mirac- 
ulously restored,  and  my  softened  heart  thanked  God  and 
blessed  her.  I  believed  I  could  be  happy  even  in  eternal 
absence,  now  that  the  guilt  of  her  death  was  taken  from 
my  soul.  Well  do  I  remember  the  kind  of  rapture  that 
flowed  in  upon  my  heart,  as  at  dawn  of  day  I  crept  noise- 
lessly to  her  side,  and  marked  the  regular  heaving  of  her 
bosom ;  and  saw  her  eyelids,  heavj''  and  dark  with  suflfer- 
ing,  it  is  true,  yet  gently  closed  over  the  dear  orbs  which 
again  and  for  many  a  long  year  would  enjoy  the  light  of 
day.  I  felt  a  new  man,  I  felt  happy.  In  a  few  short 
hours  I  should  receive  her  pardon — convey  her  home — de- 
clare my  own  guilt ;  and  while  absolving  her,  offer  myself 
as  the  mark  of  whatever  vengeance  her  husband  might 
choose  to  take.  Me  ! — oh,  what  was  I  ?  I  had  no  being  ; 
it  was  dissolved  into  a  mere  yearning  for  her  life — her  con- 
tentment. I  was  about  to  render  myself  up  as  a  criminal 
to  a  man  whose  most  generous  act  would  be  to  meet  me  in 
the  field ;  but  that  was  nothing ;  I  thought  not  of  it,  either 
with  gladness  or  regret.  She  lives — she  shall  be  restored 
to  all  she  loves — she  once  again  will  be  at  peace. 

"  These  were  my  dreams  as  I  hung  over  her,  and  gradu- 
ally the  break  of  day  became  more  decided  ;  by  the  increas- 
ing light  I  could  perceive  that  I  had  not  deceived  myself, 
she  slept  a  healthy,  profound,  healing  sleep  :  I  returned  to 
the  outer  room  ;  Osborne  had  wrapped  himself  in  his  great- 
coat, and  lay  stretched  on  the  floor.  I  roused  him,  and  told 
him  to  go  for  the  horses  and  carriage  immediately,  so  that 
the  first  thing  that  might  welcome  Alithea's  awakening 
should  be  the  offer  of  an  immediate  return  home.  He  glad- 
ly obeyed,  and  left  the  hut ;  but  scarcely  was  he  gone  than 
a  sort  of  consciousness  came  over  me,  that  I  would  not  re- 
main with  her  alone  ;  so  I  followed  him  at  some  little  dis- 
tance towards  the  shed  where  the  carriage  and  horses 
were. 

"  The  wind  had  scattered  every  cloud,  and  still  howled 
through  the  clear  gray  morning  sky ;  the  sea  was  in  violent 
commotion,  and  huge  surges  broke  heavily  and  rapidly  on  the 


FALKNBR.  203 

beach.  The  tide  was  flowing  fast,  and  the  bed  of  the  river  we 
had  crossed  so  safely  the  night  before  was  covered  by  the 
waves  ;  in  a  httle  time  the  ford  would  be  impassable,  and  this 
was  another  reason  to  hasten  the  arrival  of  the  horses.  To 
the  east  each  crag  and  precipice,  each  vast  mountain-top, 
showed  in  dark  relief  against  the  golden  eastern  sky ;  sea- 
ward the  horizon  was  misty  from  the  gale,  and  the  ocean 
stretched  out  inimitably;  curlews  and  gulls  screamed  as 
they  skimmed  the  crested  waves,  and  breaker  after  breaker 
dashed  furiously  at  my  feet.  It  was  a  desolate,  but  a  mag- 
nificent spectacle,  and  my  throbbing  heart  was  in  unison 
with  its  vast  grandeurs.  I  blessed  sea,  and  wind,  and  heav- 
en, and  the  dawn;  the  guilt  of  my  soul  had  passed  from 
me,  and  without  the  grievous  penalty  I  had  dreaded  ;  all 
again  was  well.  I  walked  swiftly  on,  I  reached  the  shed. 
Osborne  was  busy  with  the  horses ;  he  had  done  what  he 
could  for  them  the  night  before,  and  they  seemed  tolerably 
fresh.  I  spoke  cheerfully  to  the  man,  as  I  helped  to  har- 
ness them.  Osborne  was  still  pale  with  fright;  but  when  I 
told  him  that  I  was  going  to  carry  the  lady  back  to  her 
friends,  and  that  there  was  nothing  to  fear,  he  took  heart; 
I  bade  him  come  slowly  along,  that  the  noise  of  the  wheels 
might  not  waken  her,  if  she  still  slept,  and  I  walked  beside, 
my  hand  on  the  neck  of  one  horse  while  he  bestrode  the 
other,  and  we  gazed  around  and  pointed  to  each  other  signs 
of  the  recent  tempest,  which  had  been  so  much  more  vio- 
lent than  1  in  my  preoccupation  had  known;  and  then  as 
the  idea  of  the  ford  being  rendered  impassable  crossed  me 
again,  1  bid  him  get  on  at  a  quicker  rate,  there  was  no 
fear  of  disturbing  the  sleeping  lady,  for  the  wheels  were 
noiseless  on  the  heavy  sands. 

"  I  have  mentioned  that  huge  sand-hills  were  thrown  up 
here  and  there  on  the  beach ;  two  of  the  highest  of  these 
shut  out  all  view  of  the  hut,  and  even  of  the  river,  till  we 
were  close  upon  them.  As  we  passed  these  mounds,  my  first 
glance  was  to  see  the  state  of  the  tide.  The  bed  of  the 
river  was  entirely  filled  with  dashing  crested  waves,  which 
poured  in  from  the  sea  with  inconceivable  rapidity,  and 
obliterated  every  trace  of  the  ford.  I  looked  anxiously 
round,  but  it  was  plain  we  must  wait  for  the  ebbing  tide,  or 
make  a  long  detour  to  seek  the  upper  part  of  the  stream. 
As  I  gazed,  something  caught  my  eyes  as  peculiar.  The 
foam  of  the  breaking  waves  was  white,  and  this  object  also 
was  white  ;  yet  was  it  real,  or  but  the  mockery  of  a  human 
form  ^  For  a  moment  my  heart  ceased  to  beat,  and  then 
with  wings  to  my  feet  I  ran  to  the  hut  :  I  rushed  into  the 
inner  room — the  couch  was  deserted,  the  whole  dwelling 
empty !  I  hurried  back  to  the  river's  brink  and  strained 
my  eyeballs  to  catch  a  sight  of  the  same  fearful  object ;  it 
was  there !  I  could  not  mistake,  a  wave  lifted  up  and  then 


204  FALKNER. 

again  overwhelmed  and  swallowed  it  in  its  abyss,  the  form, 
no  longer  living,  the  dead  body  of  Alithea.  1  threw  myself 
into  the  water,  I  battled  with  the  waves,  the  tide  bore  me 
on.  Again  and  again  I  was  blinded  and  overwhelmed  by 
the  surges,  but  still  1  held  on,  and  made  my  way  into  the 
middle  of  the  roaring  flood.  As  I  rose  gasping  from  one 
large  billow  that  had,  for  more  than  a  minute,  ingulfed  me 
in  its  strangling  depths,  I  felt  a  substance  strike  against 
me  ;  instinctively  I  clutched  at  it,  and  grasping  her  long 
streaming  hair,  now  with  renewed  strength  and  frantic  en- 
ergy I  made  for  shore.  I  was  as  a  plaything  to  the  foam- 
ing billows ;  but  by  yielding  to  them,  by  suffering  myself  to 
be  carried  up  the  tide  to  wliere  the  river  grew  shallower 
and  the  waves  less  powerful,  I  was  miserable  enough  at 
last  to  escape.  Fool !  did  I  not  know  that  she  was  dead  ! — 
why  did  I  not,  clasping  her  in  my  arms,  resign  my  life  to  the 
waters  ?  No !  she  had  returned  to  me  from  the  gates  of 
death  the  night  before,  and  I  madly  deemed  the  miracle 
would  be  twice  performed. 

"  I  reached  the  bank.  Osborne,  trembling  and  ghastly, 
helped  me  to  lift  her  on  shore ;  we  endeavoured  by  various 
means  to  recall  the  spark  of  life — it  was  too  late.  She  had 
been  long  in  the  water,  and  was  quite  dead ! 

"  How  can  I  write  these  words,  how  linger  on  these  hid- 
eous details  ?  Alas  !  they  are  for  ever  before  me  ;  no  day, 
no  hour  passes  but  the  whole  scene  is  acted  over  again  with 
startling  vividness — and  my  soxd  shrinks  and  shudders  from 
the  present  image  of  death.  Even  now  that  the  dawn  of 
Greece  is  breaking  among  the  hills -that  the  balmy  summer 
air  fans  my  cheek — that  the  distant  mountain-tops  are  gilded 
by  the  morning  beams,  and  the  rich,  tranquil  beauty  of  a 
southern  clime  is  around — yet  even  now  the  roar  of  that  dis- 
tant ocean  is  in  my  ear,  the  desolate  coast  stretches  out  far 
away,  and  Alithea  lies  pale,  drenched,  and  lifeless  at  my 
feet. 

"  I  saw  it  all ;  and  how  often  and  for  ever  do  I  go  over  in 
'  my  thoughts  what  had  passed  during  the  interval  of  my  ab- 
sence !  She  had  awoke  refreshed — she  collected  her  scat- 
tered senses — she  remembered  the  hideous  vision  of  her 
carrying  off.  She  knew  not  of  my  relenting — she  feared  my 
violence — she  resolved  to  escape  ;  she  was  familiar  with 
that  shore ;  its  rivers  and  the  laws  which  governed  their  tides 
were,  known  to  her.  She  believed  that  she  could  pass  the 
water  in  safety,  for  often,  when  the  bed  of  tlie  estuary  was 
apparently  full,  she  knew  that  ^he  had  forded  the  stream  on 
horseback,  and  the  waters  scarce  covered  the  animal's  fet- 
lock. Intent  on  escaping  the  man  of  violence,  of  reaching 
her  beloved  home,  she  had  entered  the  stream  without  cal- 
culating the  difference  of  a  calm  neap  tide,  and  the  mass  of 
irresistible  waves  borne  up  by  the  strong  western  wind; 


FALKNEn.  205 

they  perhaps  seemed  less  terrible  than  I ;  to  fly  from  me, 
she  encountered,  delivered  herself  up  to  them !  and  there 
she  lay,  destroyed,  dead,  lost  for  ever ! 

"  No  more  of  this !  What  then  I  did  may,  I  now  con- 
ceive, appear  more  shocking  to  my  countrymen  than  all  that 
•went  before.  But  I  knew  little  of  Enghsh  customs.  J  had 
gone  out  an  inexperienced  stripling  to  India,  and  my  modes 
of  action  were  formed  tliere.  I  now  know  that  when  one 
dies  in  England,  they  keep  tlie  lifeless  corpse,  weeping  and 
watching  beside  it,  for  many  days,  and  then,  with  lingering 
ceremonies  and  the  attendance  of  relations  and  friends,  lay 
it  solemnly  in  the  dismal  tomb.  But  I  had  seen  whole  ar- 
mies mown  down  by  the  sword  and  disease ;  1  was  accus- 
tomed to  the  soldier's  hastily-dug  grave  in  a  climate  where 
corruption  follows  fast  upon  deatli.  To  hide  the  dead  with 
speed  from  every  eye  was  the  Indian  custom. 

"  And  then,  should  I  take  the  corpse  of  Alithea,  wet  with 
the  ocean  tide,  ghastly  from  the  throes  of  recent  death,  and 
bear  her  to  her  home,  and  say,  liere  she  is — she  enjoyed  life 
and  happiness  yester-evening;  I  bore  her  away,  behold  my 
work !  Should  I  present  myself  to  her  husband,  answer  his 
questions,  detail  the  various  stages  of  my  crime,  and  tamely 
await  his  vengeance  or  his  pardon  ]     Never ! 

"  Or  should  I  destroy  myself  at  her  side,  and  leave  our 
bodies  to  tell  a  frightful  tale  of  mystery  and  horror  ?  The 
miserable  terrors  of  my  associate  would  of  itself  have  pre- 
vented this  catastrophe.     I  had  to  reassure  and  protect  him. 

"  My  resolution  was  quickly  made  not  to  outhve  my  vic- 
tim— and,  making  atonement  by  my  death,  what  other  pen- 
alty could  I  be  called  upon  to  pay  ?  But  my  death  should 
not  be  a  tale  to  appal  or  amuse  the  vulgar,  or  to  swell  with 
triumph  the  heart  of  Alithea's  tyrant  husband.  Secrecy  and 
oblivion  should  cover  all.  My  plan  was  laid,  and  I  acted 
accordingly. 

"  Osborne  entered  into  the  design  with  alacrity.  He  was 
moved  by  other  feelings,  he  was  possessed  by  an  agony  of 
fear ;  he  did  not  doubt  but  that  we  should  be  accused  of 
murdering  the  hapless  lady,  and  the  image  of  the  gallows 
flitted  before  his  eyes. 

"  Understanding  each  other  without  many  words,  Osborne 
said  that  in  the  shed  where  we  had  placed  the  horses  he  had 
remarked  a  spade  ;  it  was  so  early  that  no  one  was  about  to 
observe  liim,  and  he  went  to  fetch  it.  He  returned  in  about 
half  an  hour ;  I  sat  keeping  watch  the  while  by  the  dead, 
and  feasted  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of  my  pale  vicum  as  she 
lay  at  my  feet.  Of  what  tough  materials  is  man  formed, 
that  my  heart-strings  did  not  break,  and  that  I  outlived  that 
hour! 

"  Osborne  returned,  and  we  went  to  work.  Some  ten 
yards  above  high-water  mark  there  was  a  single  leafless, 
18 


206  FALKNER. 

moss-grown,  skeleton  tree,  with  something  hke  soil  about 
its  roots,  and  sheltered  from  the  spray  and  breeze  by  the 
vicinity  of  a  sand-hill ;  close  to  it  Ave  dug  a  deep  grave.  I 
placed  the  cushions  in  it  on  which  her  fair  form,  all  warm 
and  soft,  had  reposed,  during  the  preceding  night.  Then  I 
composed  her  stark  limbs,  banding  the  long  wet  tresses  of 
her  abimdant  hair  across  her  eyes,  for  ever  closed,  crossing 
her  hands  upon  her  pure,  death-cold  bosom  ;  I  touched  her 
reverently — I  did  not  even  profane  her  hand  by  a  kiss  ;  I 
wrapped  her  in  her  cloak,  and  laid  her  in  the  open  grave.  I 
tore  down  some  of  the  decaying  boughs  of  the  withered 
tree,  and,  arching  them  above  her  body,  threw  my  own 
cloak  above,  so  with  vain  care  to  protect  her  lifeless  form 
from  immediate  contact  with  the  soil.  Then  we  filled  up 
the  grave,  and,  scattering  dry  sand  above,  removed  every 
sign  of  recent  opening.  This  was  performed  in  silence,  or 
with  whispered  words — the  roaring  waves  were  her  knell, 
the  rising  sun  her  funeral  torch ;  I  was  satisfied  with  the 
solemnity  of  the  scene  around,  and  I  was  composed,  for  I 
was  resolved  on  death.  Osborne  trembled  in  every  limb, 
and  his  face  rivalled  in  hue  her  wan,  bloodless  countenance. 

"  We  carefully  removed  every  article  from  the  hut,  and 
put  all  in  the  same  state  as  when  we  found  it.  I  did  not, 
indeed,  fear  discovery ;  who  would  imagine  that  my  course 
would  be  to  the  desolate  seabeach  ■?  and  if  they  did,  and 
found  all,  I  should  be  far,  I  should  be  dead.  But  Osborne 
was  eager  to  obliterate  every  mark  of  the  hut  having  been 
visited.  When  he  was  satisfied  that  he  had  accomplished 
this,  without  looking  behind,  I  got  into  the  carriage,  we 
drove  with  what  speed  we  could  to  Lancaster,  and  thence 
to  Liverpool.  Osborne  was  in  a  transport  of  fear  till  he 
got  on  board  an  American  vessel  :  fortunately,  the  wind 
having  veered  towards  the  north,  there  was  one  about  to 
weigh  anchor.  I  placed  a  considerable  sum  of  money  in 
my  accomplice's  hands,  and  recommended  discretion.  He 
would  have  questioned  me  as  to  my  own  designs,  but  he 
respected  my  stern  silence,  and  we  parted  never  to  meet 
again.  A  small  coasting  vessel,  bound  for  Plymouth,  was 
at  that  moment  making  her  way  out  of  harbour  ;  I  hailed  a 
man  on  board,  and  threw  myself  on  to  the  deck. 

"  Elizhbeth  can  tell  the  rest.  She  knows  how  I  landed 
in  a  secluded  village  of  Cornwall,  with  the  intent  there  to 
make  due  sacrifice  to  the  outraged  manes  of  Alithea.  Still 
I  grieve  for  the  unaccomplished  purpose  ;  still  I  repine  that 
I  did  not  there  die.  She  stopped  my  hand.  An  angel,  in 
likeness  of  a  human  child,  arrested  my  arm  ;  and  winning 
my  wonder  by  her  extraordinary  loveliness,  and  my  interest 
by  her  orphan  and  desolate  position,  I  seemed  called  upon 
to  live  for  her  sake.  The  struggle  was  violent,  for  I  longed 
to  make  atonement  by  my  death  ;  and  I  longed  to  forget  my 


PALKNER.  207 

crimes  and  their  consequences  in  the  oblivious  grave.  At 
first  I  thought  that  the  respite  I  granted  myself  would  be 
short,  but  it  lasted  for  years;  and  I  dragged  out  a  living 
death,  having  survived  love  and  hope  :  remorse  my  fol- 
lower ;  ghastly  images  of  crime  and  death  my  comrades. 
I  travelled  from  place  to  place,  pursued  by  Alithea's  upbraid- 
ing ghost  and  my  own  torturing  thoughts.  By  frequent 
change  of  place,  I  sought  to  assuage  my  pangs  ;  I  believe 
that  1  increased  them.  They  might  perhaps  have  been  mit- 
igated by  the  monotony  of  a  stationary  life.  But  a  travel- 
ler's existence  is  all  sensation,  and  every  emotion  is  rendered 
active  and  penetrating  by  the  perpetual  variation  of  the  ap- 
pearances of  natural  objects.  Thought  and  feeling  awaken 
with  the  sun,  and  dewy  eve  and  the  radiant  stars  cause  the 
eyes  to  turn  towards  the  backward  path  ;  while  darkness, 
felt  palpably,  as  one  proceeds  onward  in  an  unknown  land, 
awakens  the  snakes  of  conscience.  The  storm  and  expected 
wreck  are  images  of  retribution ;  while  yet  the  destruction 
I  pined  for  receded  from  before  my  thirsting  lips. 

"  Yet  still  I  dragged  on  hfe,  most  unworthily  and  un- 
worthy, till  on  a  day  I  saw  the  son  of  mj^  victim  at  Baden. 
I  witnessed  misery,  widely  spread,  through  my  means;  and 
felt  that  her  disimbodied  spirit  must  curse  me  for  the  (;vil  I 
had  brought  on  her  beloved  child.  I  remembered  all  she  had 
fondly  said  of  him  :  and  the  cloudless  beauty  of  his  face,  his 
joyous  laugh,  and  free  step  when  last  I  saw  him  at  her  side. 
He  was  blighted  and  destroyed  by  me  ;  gloomy,  savage,  and 
wild,  eternal  sorrow  was  written  on  his  brow,  fear  and 
hatred  gleamed  in  his  eyes.  Such  by  my  means  had  the 
son  of  Alithea  become  ;  such  had  his  base-minded  father 
rendered  him  ;  but  mine  the  guilt — minebe  the  punishment ! 
What  a  wretch  was  1,  to  live  in  peace  and  security,  minis- 
tered to  by  an  angel — while  this  dearest  part  of  herself  was 
doomed  to  anguish,  and  to  the  unmitigated  influence  of  the 
demon  for  ever  at  his  side,  through  my  accursed  means. 

"  From  that  hour  I  became  thrice  hateful  to  myself;  I 
had  tried  to  hve  for  my  Ehzabeth  ;  but  that  idea  passed 
away  with  every  other  solace,  in  which  hitherto  i  had  ini- 
quitously  indulged.  I  resolved  to  die ;  but  as  a  taint  has 
been  cast  by  the  most  villanous  heart  in  the  world  upon  her 
hallowed  name,  my  first  task  was  to  i-edeem  that  out  of  her 
unworthy  husband's  hands ;  and  yet  I  could  not,  I  would 
not,  while  living,  disclose  the  truth  and  give  a  triumph  to 
my  enemy.  But  soon,  oh,  very  soon,  will  the  soil  of  Greece 
drink  up  my  life-blood !  and  while  this  writing  proclaims  her 
innocence,  J  shall  be  sheltered  by  the  grave  from  the  taunts 
and  revilings  of  men. 

"  And  you,  dear  child  of  my  affection,  who  have  been  to 
me  as  a  blessing  immediate  from  Heaven,  who  have  warmed 
my  heart  with  your  love  and  smoothed  the  fierceness  of  my 


208  FALKNER. 

temper  by  your  unalterable  sweetness ;  who  having  blessed 
me  with  your  virtues,  clinging  to  the  ruin  with  a  fidehty  I 
believed  impossible,  how  shall  I  say  farewell  to  you "!  For- 
give your  friend  that  he  deserts  you ;  long  ago  he  deserted 
himself  and  the  better  part  of  life  ;  it  is  but  the  shell  of  him 
that  remains;  and  that  corroded  by  remorse,  and  the  desire 
to  die.  You  deserve  better  than  to  have  your  young  days 
clouded  by  the  shadow  of  my  crime  thrown  over  them. 
Forget  me,  and  be  happy ;  you  must  be  so,  while  I —  The 
sun  is  up;  the  martial  trumpet  sounds.  It  is  a  joy  to  think 
that  I  shall  have  a  soldier's  grave  " 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

Such  was  the  tale  presented  to  the  young,  enthusiastic^ 
innocent  Elizabeth,  unveiling  the  secret  of  the  life  of  him 
whom  she  revered  above  all  the  world.  Her  soul  was  in 
her  eyes  as  she  read,  or  rather  devoured,  page  after  page^ 
till  she  arrived  at  the  catastrophe ;  when  a  burst  of  pas- 
sionate tears  relieved  her  swelling  bosom,  and  carried  away 
upon  their  stream  a  thousand,  trembling,  unspeakable  fears 
that  had  gathered  in  wild  multitude  around  her  heart.  "He 
is  innocent !  He,  my  benefactor,  my  father,  when  he  ac- 
cused himself  of  murder,  spoke,  as  I  thought,  of  a  conse- 
quence, not  an  act ;  and  if  the  chief  principle  of  religion  be 
true,  that  repentance  washes  away  sin,  he  is  pardoned,  and 
the  crime  forgotten.  Noble,  generous  heart !  What  drops 
of  anguish  have  you  not  shed  in  atonement !  What  glorious 
obsequies  you  pay  your  victim.  For  she  also  is  acquitted. 
Gerard's  mother  is  more  than  innocent.  She  was  true  to 
him,  and  to  the  purest  sentiments  of  nature,  to  the  end; 
nay,  more,  her  life  was  sacrificed  to  them."  And  Elizabeth 
went  over  in  her  mind,  as  Falkner  had  often  done,  the  emo- 
tions that  actuated  her  to  attempt  the  dangerous  passage 
across  the  ford.  She  fancied  her  awakening  on  the  fatal 
morning,  her  wild  look  around.  No  familiar  object  met  her 
view — nor  did  any  friendly  voice  reassure  her ;  the  strange 
scene  and  solitary  hut  were  testimonies  that  she  did  not  dream, 
and  that  she  had  really  been  torn  from  home  and  all  she 
loved  by  a  violence  she  could  not  resist.  At  first  she  must 
have  listened  tremblingly,  and  fancied  her  lover-enemy  at 
hand.  But  all  is  still.  She  rises  ;  she  ventures  to  examine 
the  strange  dwelling  to  which  she  has  been  carried — no 
human  being  presents  himself.  She  quits  the  threshold  of 
the  hut — a  familiar  scene  is  before  her  eyes,  the  ocean  and 
the  dreary  but  well-known  shore — the  river  which  she  has 


FALKNER.  209 

80  often  crossed — and  among  the  foldings  of  the  not  distant 
hills,  imbosomed  in  trees,  she  sees  Dromore,  her  tranquil 
home.  She  knows  that  it  is  but  a  few  miles  distant;  and 
while  she  fancies  her  enemy  near  at  hand,  yet  the  hope 
animates  her  that  she  may  cross  the  stream  unseen,  and 
escape.  Elizabeth  imaged  all  her  hopes  and  fears ;  she 
seemed  to  see  the  hapless  lady  place  her  uncertain  feet, 
her  purpose  being  stanch  and  unfaltering,  witliin  the  shal- 
low wave,  which  she  believed  she  could  traverse  in  safety  ; 
the  roar  of  the  advancing  tide  was  in  her  ears,  the  spray 
dashed  round  her,  and  her  footing  grev/  uncertain,  as  she 
sought  to  find  her  way  across  the  rugged  bed  of  the  river. 
But  she  thought  only  of  her  child,  from  whom  she  had  been 
torn,  and  her  fears  of  being,  through  the  deed  of  violence 
which  had  carried  her  otT,  excluded  from  her  home  for  ever. 
To  arrive  at  that  home  was  all  her  desire.  As  she  ad- 
vanced she  still  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  clustering  woods  of 
Dromore,  sleeping  stilly  in  the  gray,  quiet  dawn :  and  she 
risked  her  life  unhesitatingly  to  gain  the  sacred  shelter. 
All  depended  on  htr  reaching  it,  quickly  and  alone ;  and 
she  was  doomed  never  to  see  it  more.  She  advances  reso- 
lutely, but  cautiously.  The  waves  rise  higher  — she  is  in 
the  midst  of  the  stream — lier  fooling  becomes  more  unsteady 
— does  she  look  back  1 — there  is  no  return — her  heart 
proudly  repels  the  very  thought  of  desiring  it.  She  gathers 
her  garments  about  her — she  looks  right  onward — she  steps 
more  carefully — the  surges  buffet  her — they  rise  higher  and 
higher — the  spray  is  dashed  over  her  head,  and  blinds  her 
sight — a  false  step — she  falls — the  waters  open  to  ingulf 
her — she  is  borne  away.  One  thought  of  her  Gerard — one 
prayer  to  Heaven,  and  the  human  eye  can  pursue  the  part- 
ing soul  no  farther.  She  is  lost  to  earth — none  upon  it  can 
any  longer  claim  a  portion  in  her. 

I3ut  she  is  innocent.  The  last  word  murmured  in  her 
last  sleep — the  last  word  human  ears  heard  her  utter,  was 
her  son's  name.  To  the  last  she  was  all  mother  ;  her  heart 
filled  with  that  deep  yearning,  which  a  young  mother  feels 
to  be  the  very  essence  of  her  life,  for  the  presence  of  her 
child.  There  is  something  so  beautiful  in  a  young  mother's 
feelings.  Usually  a  creature  to  be  fostered  and  protected 
— taught  to  look  to  another  for  aid  and  safety ;  yet  a  woman 
is  the  undaunted  guardian  of  her  little  child.  She  will  ex- 
pose herself  to  a  thousand  dangers  to  shield  his  fragile- 
being  from  harm.  If  sickness  or  injury  approach  him,  her 
heart  is  transfixed  by  terror:  readily,  joyfully,  she  would 
give  her  own  blood  to  sustain  him.  The  world  is  a  hideous 
desert  when  she  is  threatened  to  be  deprived  of  him  ;  and 
when  he  is  near,  and  she  takes  him  to  the  shelter  of  her 
bosom,  and  wraps  him  in  her  soft,  warm  embrace,  she  cares 
for  nothing  beyond  that  circle ;  and  his  smiles  and  infantine 
18» 


210  '  Falkner. 

caresses  are  the  life  of  her  life.  Such  a  mother  was  Ali- 
thea ;  and  in  Gerard  she  possessed  a  son  capable  of  cal- 
ling forth  in  its  intensity,  and  of  fully  rewarding,  her  maternal 
tenderness.  What  wonder,  when  she  saw  him  cast  piti- 
lessly down  on  the  road-side^ — aUve  or  dead  she  knew  not 
• — the  wheel  of  the  carriage  that  bore  her  away  might  have 
crushed  and  destroyed  his  tender  limbs— what  wonder  that 
she  should  be  threatened  by  instant  death,  through  the  ex- 
cess of  her  agony  1  What  wonder  that,  reviving  from 
death,  her  first  and  only  thought  was  to  escape — to  get  back 
to  him — to  clasp  him  to  her  heart — never  to  be  severed 
more  T 

How  glad,  and  yet  how  miserable,  Gerard  would  be  to 
read  this  tale.  His  proudest  and  fondest  assertions  certi- 
fied as  true,  and  yet  to  feel  that  he  had  lost  her  for  ever, 
whose  excellence  was  proved  to  be  thus  paramount.  Eliza- 
beth's reflections  now  rested  on  him— and  now  turned  to 
Falkner — and  now  she  opened  the  manuscript  again,  and 
read  anew — and  then  again  her  heart  made  its  commen- 
tary, and  she  wept  and  rejoiced ;  and  longed  to  comfort  her 
father,  and  congratulate  Neville,  all  in  a  breath. 

She  never  thought  of  herself.  This  was  Elizabeth's  pe- 
culiarity. She  could  be  so  engrossed  by  sympathy  for  oth- 
ers, that  she  could  forget  herself  wholly.  At  length  she 
remembered  her  father's  directions,  that  his  manuscript 
should  be  given  to  Neville  when  he  called.  She  had  no 
thought  of  disobeying ;  nor  could  she  help  being  glad  that 
Gerard's  filial  affection  should  receive  its  reward,  even  while 
she  was  pained  to  think  that  Falkner  should  be  changed  at 
once  into  an  enemy  in  her  new  friend's  eyes.  Still  her  gen- 
erous nature  led  her  instantly  to  ally  herself  to  the  weaker 
side.  Neville  was  triumphant — Falkner  humiliated  and 
fallen  ;  and  thus  he  drew  her  closer  to  him,  and  riveted  the 
chain  of  gratitude  and  fidelity  by  which  she  was  bound. 
She  had  shed  many  tears  for  Alithea's  untimely  fate  ;  for 
the  virtues  and  happiness  hurried  to  a  mysterious  end — bu- 
ried in  an  untold  grave.  But  she  had  her  reward.  Long 
had  she  been  there,  where  there  is  no  trouble,  no  strife — 
her  pure  soul  received  into  the  company  of  kindred  angels. 
Her  heroism  would  now  be  known ;  her  actions  justified ; 
she  would  be  raised  above  her  sex  in  praise ;  her  memory 
crowned  with  unfading  glory.  It  was  Falkner  who  needed 
the  exertion  of  present  service,  to  forgive  and  console.  He 
must  be  raised  from  his  self-abasement;  his  despair  must 
be  cured.  He  must  feel  that  the  hour  of  remorse  was  past ; 
that  of  repentance  and  forgiveness  come.  He  must  be  re- 
warded for  all  his  goodness  to  her,  by  being  made  to  love 
life  for  her  sake.  Neville,  whose  heart  was  free  from  every 
base  alloy,  would  enter  into  these  feelings.  Content  to  res- 
cue the  fame  of  his  mother  from  the  injury  done  it ;  happy 


•  PALKNER.  211 

ill  being  assured  that  liis  faithful,  filial  love  had  not  been 
mistaken  in  its  reliance,  the  first  emotion  of  his  generous 
soul  would  be  to  forgive.  Yet  Elizabeth  fancied  that,  borne 
away  by  his  ardour  in  his  mother's  cause,  he  might  alto- 
gether pass  over  and  forget  the  extenuating  circumstances 
that  rendered  Falkner  worthy  of  pardon  ;  and  she  thought  it 
right  to  accompany  the  narrative  with  an  explanatory  letter. 
Thus  she  wrote  : — 

"  My  father  has  given  me  these  papers  for  the  purpose  of 
transmitting  them  to  you.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  read 
them  this  day  for  the  first  time  :  that  till  now  I  was  in  total 
ignorance  of  the  facts  they  disclose. 

"  It  is  most  true  that  I,  a  little  child,  stopped  his  arm  as 
he  was  about  to  destroy  himself.  Moved  by  pity  for  my  or- 
phan state,  he  consented  to  live.  Is  this  a  crime]  Yet  I 
could  not  reconcile  him  to  life,  and  he  went  to  Greece, 
seeking  death.  He  went  there  in  the  pride  of  life  and 
health.  You  saw  him  at  Marseilles  ;  you  saw  him  to-day 
— the  living  effigy  of  remorse  and  wo. 

"  It  is  hard,  at  the  moment  you  discover  that  he  was  the 
cause  of  your  mother's  death,  to  ask  your  sympathy  for  his 
sufferings  and  high-minded  contrition.  I  leave  you  to  fol- 
low the  dictates  of  your  own  heart  with  regard  to  him. 
For  myself,  attached  to  him  as  I  am  by  every  sentiment  of 
affection  and  gratitude,  1  am,  from  this  moment,  more  than 
ever  devoted  to  his  service,  and  eager  to  prove  to  him  my 
fidelity. 

"  These  words  come  from  myself.  My  father  knows  not 
what  I  write.  He  simply  told  me  to  inform  you  that  he 
should  remain  here ;  and  if  you  desired  aught  of  him,  he 
was  ready  at  your  call.  He  thinks,  perhaps,  you  may  re- 
quire further  explanation — further  guidance  to  your  moth- 
er's grave.  Oh,  secret  and  obscure  as  it  is,  is  it  not  guarded 
by  angels  ?     Have  you  not  been  already  led  to  it  ]" 

She  left  off  abruptly — she  heard  a  ring  at  the  outer  gate 
— the  hour  had  come — it  must  be  Neville  !  She  placed  the 
papers  in  the  writing-case,  and  directing  and  sealing  the  let- 
ter, gave  both  to  the  servant,  to  be  delivered  to  him. 
Scarcely  was  this  done,  when  suddenly  it  flashed  across 
her  how  the  relative  situations  of  Neville  and  herself  were 
changed.  That  morning  she  had  been  his  chosen  friend — 
into  her  ear  he  poured  the  history  of  his  hopes  and  fears — 
he  claimed  her  sympathy — and  she  felt  that  from  her  he  de- 
rived a  happiness  never  felt  before.  Now  he  must  regard 
her  as  the  daughter  of  his  mother's  destroyer,  and  should 
she  ever  see  him  more  1  Instinctively  she  rushed  to  the 
highest  room  of  the  house  to  catch  one  other  glimpse.  By 
the  time  she  reached  the  window,  the  act  was  fulfilled  that 


212  FALKXER. 

changed  both  their  lives — the  packet  given.  Dimly,  in  the 
twilight,  she  saw  a  horseman  emerge  from  under  the  wall 
of  the  garden,  and  slowly  cross  the  heath ;  slowly  at  first, 
as  if  he  did  not  comprehend  what  had  happened,  or  what  he 
was  doing.  There  is  something  that  excites  unspeakable 
tenderness  when  the  form  of  the  loved  one  is  seen,  even 
from  far ;  and  Elizabeth,  though  unaware  of  the  nature  and 
depth  of  her  sensations,  yet  felt  her  heart  soften  and  yearn 
towards  her  friend.  A  blessing  fell  from  her  lips  ;  while  the 
consciousness  of  all  of  doubtful  and  sad  that  he  must  at  that 
moment  experience,  at  being  sent  from  her  door  with  a 
written  communication  only,  joined  to  the  knowledge  that 
each  succeeding  hour  would  add  to  the  barriers  that  separated 
them,  so  overcame  her,  that  when  at  last  he  put  spurs  to  his 
horse,  and  was  borne  out  of  sight  into  the  thickening  twi^ 
light,  she  burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  wept  for  some 
time,  not  knowing  what  she  did,  nor  where  she  was ;  but 
feeling  that  from  that  hour  the  colour  of  her  existence  was 
changed — its  golden  hue  departed — and  that  patience  and 
resignation  must  henceforth  take  place  of  gladness  and 
hope. 

She  roused  herself  after  a  few  minutes  from  this  sort  of 
trance,  and  her  thoughts  reverted  to  Falkner.  There  are 
few  crimes  so  enormous  but  that,  when  we  undertake  to  an- 
alyze their  motives,  they  do  not  find  some  excuse  and  par- 
don in  the  eyes  of  all  except  their  perpetrators.  Sympa- 
thy is  more  of  a  deceiver  than  conscience.  The  stander-by 
may  dilate  on  the  force  of  passion  and  the  power  of  tempt- 
ation, but  the  guilty  are  not  cheated  by  such  subterfuges ; 
he  knows  that  the  still  voice  within  was  articulate  to  him. 
He  remembers  that  at  the  moment  of  action  he  felt  his  arm 
checked,  his  ear  warned ;  he  could  have  stopped,  and  been 
innocent.  Perhaps  of  all  the  scourges  wielded  by  tlxe 
dread  Eumenides,  there  is  none  so  torturing  as  the  con- 
sciousness of  the  wilfulness  of  the  act  deplored.  It  is  a 
mysterious  principle,  to  be  driven  out  by  no  reasonings,  no 
commonplace  philosophy.  It  had  eaten  into  Falkner's 
soul;  taken  sleep  from  his  eyes,  strength  from  his  limbs, 
every  healthy  and  self-complacent  sentiment  from  his  soul. 

Elizabeth,  however,  innocent  and  good  as  she  was,  fan- 
cied a  thousand  excuses  for  an  act,  whose  frightful  catas- 
trophe was  not  foreseen.  Falkner  called  himself  a  mur- 
derer ;  but,  though  the  untimely  death  of  the  unfortunate 
Alithea  was  brought  about  by  his  means,  so  far  from  being 
guilty  of  the  deed,  he  would  have  given  a  thousand  lives  to 
save  her.  Since  her  death,  she  well  knew  that  sleep  had 
not  refreshed,  nor  food  nourished  him.  He  was  blighted, 
turned  from  all  the  uses  and  enjoyments  of  life  ;  he  desired 
the  repose  of  the  grave  ;  he  had  sought  death  ;  he  had  made 
himself  akin  to  the  grim  destroyer. 


PALKNER.  213 

That  he  had  acted  wrongly,  nay,  criminally,  Elizabeth  ac- 
knowledged. But  by  how  many  throes  of  anguish,  by  what 
repentance  and  sacrifice  of  all  that  life  holds  dear,  had  he 
not  expiated  the  past !  Elizabeth  longed  to  see  him  again, 
to  tell  him  how  fondly  she  still  loved  him,  how  he  was  ex- 
alted, not  debased,  in  her  eyes ;  to  comfort  him  with  her 
sympatliy,  cherish  him  with  her  love.  It  was  true  that  she 
did  not  quite  approve  of  the  present  state  of  his  mind ; 
there  was  too  much  of  pride,  too  much  despair.  But  when 
he  found  that,  instead  of  scorn,  his  confession  met  with 
compassion  and  redoubled  affection,  his  heart  would  soften, 
he  would  no  longer  desire  to  die,  so  to  escape  from  blame 
and  retribution  ;  but  be  content  to  endure,  and  teach  him- 
self that  resignation  which  is  the  noblest  and  most  unat- 
tainable temper  of  mind  to  which  humanity  may  aspire. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

While  these  thoughts,  founded  on  a  natural  piety,  pure 
and  gentle  as  herself,  occupied  Elizabeth,  Fallcner  indulged 
in  far  other  speculations.  He  triumphed.  It  is  strange, 
tiiat  although  perpetually  deceived  and  led  astray  by  our 
imagination,  we  always  fancy  that  we  can  foresee,  and  in 
some  sort  command,  the  consequences  of  our  actions. 
Falkner,  while  he  deplored  his  beloved  victim  with  the 
most  heartfelt  grief,  yet  at  no  time  experienced  a  qualm  of 
fear,  because  he  believed  that  he  held  the  means  of  escape 
in  his  own  hands,  and  could  always  shelter  himself  from 
the  obloquy  that  he  now  incurred,  in  an  unapproachable 
tomb.  'I'hrough  strange  accidents,  that  resource  had  failed 
him  ;  he  was  alive,  and  his  secret  was  in  the  hands  of  his 
enemies.  But  as  he  confronted  the  injured  son  of  a  more 
injured  mother,  another  thought,  dearer  to  his  lawless  yet 
heroic  imagination,  presented  itself.  There  was  one  repa- 
ration he  could  make,  and  doubtless  it  would  be  demanded 
of  him.  The  law  of  honour  would  be  resorted  to,  to 
avenge  the  death  of  Alithea.  He  did  not  for  a  moment 
doubt  but  that  Neville  would  challenge  him.  His  care  must 
be  to  fall  by  the  young  man's  hand.  There  was  a  sort  of 
poetical  justice  in  this  idea,  a  noble  and  fitting  ending  to  his 
disastrous  story,  that  solaced  his  pride,  and  filled  him,  as  it 
has  been  said,  with  triumph. 

Having  arrived  at  this  conclusion,  he  felt  sure  also  that 
the  consummation  would  follow  immediately  on  Neville's 
perusal  of  the  narration  put  into  his  hands,    This  very  day 


214  FALKNER. 

might  be  his  last,  and  it  was  necessary  to  make  every  pre- 
liminary arrangement.  Leaving  Elizabeth  occupied  with 
his  fatal  papers,  he  drove  to  town  to  seek  Mr.  Ra?iy's  soli- 
citor, to  place  in  his  hands  the  proofs  of  his  adopted  child's 
birth,  so  to  secure  her  future  acknowledgment  by  her 
father's  family.  She  was  not  his  child ;  no  drop  of  his 
blood  flowed  in  her  veins  ;  his  name  did  not  belong  to  her. 
As  Miss  Raby,  Neville  would  gladly  seek  her,  while  as  Miss 
Falkner,  an  insuperable  barrier  existed  between  them  ;  and 
though  he  fell  by  Gerard's  hand,  yet  he  meant  to  leave  a 
letter  to  convmce  her  that  this  was  but  a  sort  of  cunning 
suicide,  and  that  it  need  place  no  obstacle  between  two  per- 
sons whom  he  believed  were  formed  for  each  other.  What 
more  delightful  than  that  his  own  Elizabeth  should  love  the 
son  of  AUthea?  If  he  survived,  indeed,  this  mutual  attach- 
ment would  be  beset  by  difficulties  ;  his  death  was  like  the 
levelling  of  a  mountain — all  was  plain,  easy,  happy,  when  he 
no  longer  deformed  the  scene. 

He  had  some  difficulty  in  meeting  with  Mr.  Raby's  man 
of  business.  He  found  him,  however,  perfectly  acquainted 
•with  all  the  circumstances,  and  eager  to  examine  the  docu- 
ments placed  in  his  hands.  He  had  already  written  to 
Treby,  and  received  confirmation  of  all  Falkner's  statements. 
This  activity  had  been  imparted  by  Mrs.  Raby,  then  at  Tun- 
bridge  Wells,  who  was  anxious  to  render  justice  to  the 
orphan,  the  moment  she  had  been  informed  of  her  existence  ; 
Falkner  heard  with  great  satisfaction  of  the  excellent  qual- 
ities of  this  lady,  and  the  interest  she  showe'd  in  poor 
Edwin  Ruby's  orphan  child.  The  day  was  consumed,  and 
part  of  the  evening,  in  these  arrangements,  and  a  final  inter- 
view with  his  own  solicitor.  His  will  was  already  made : 
he  divided  his  property  between  Elizabeth  and  his  cousin, 
the  only  surviving  daughter  of  his  uncle. 

Something  of  shame  was  in  his  heart  when  he  returned 
and  met  again  his  adopted  child,  a  shame  ennobled  by  the 
sense  that  he  was  soon  to  offer  up  his  life  as  atonement ; 
while  she,  who  had  long  been  reflecting  on  all  that  occurred, 
yet  felt  it  brought  home  more  keenly  when  she  again  saw 
him,  and  read  in  his  countenance  the  tale  of  remorse  and 
grief,  more  legibly  than  in  the  written  page.  Passionately 
and  gratefully  attached,  her  heart  warmed  towards  him,  his 
very  look  of  suffering  was  an  urgent  call  upon  her  fidelity ; 
and  though  she  felt  all  the  change  that  his  disclosures  oper- 
ated, though  she  saw  the  flowery  path  she  had  been  tread- 
ing at  once  wasted  and  barren,  all  sense  of  personal  disap- 
pointment was  merged  in  her  desire  to  prove  her  affection 
at  that  moment ;  silently,  but  with  heroic  fervour,  she  offer- 
ed herself  up  at  the  shrine  of  his  broken  fortunes :  love, 
friendship,  good  name,  life  itself,  if  need  were,  should  be 


FALKNER.  S15 

set  at  naught ;  weighed  in  a  balance  against  her  duty  to 
him,  they  were  but  as  a  feather  in  the  scale. 

They  sat  together  as  of  old,  their  looks  were  affectionate, 
their  talk  cheeerful ;  it  seemed  to  embrace  the  future  as  well 
as  the  present,  and  yet  to  exclude  every  painful  reflection. 
The  heart  of  each  bore  its  own  secret  without  betrayal. 
Falkner  expected  in  a  few  hours  to  be  called  upon  to  expiate 
with  his  life  the  evils  he  had  caused,  while  Elizabeth's 
thoughts  wandered  to  Neville.  Now  he  was  reading  the 
fatal  naiTative ;  now  agonized  pity  for  his  mother,  now  ab- 
horrence of  Falkner,  alternated  in  his  heart ;  her  image  was 
cast  out,  or  only  called  up  to  be  associated  with  the  hated 
name  of  the  destroyer.  Her  sensibility  was  keenly  excited. 
How  ardently  had  she  prayed,  how  fervently  had  she  believed 
that  he  would  succeed  in  establishing  his  mother's  innocence  ; 
in  what  high  honour  she  had  held  his  filial  piety — these  things 
were  still  the  same ;  yet  how  changed  were  both  towards 
each  other !  It  w^as  impossible  that  they  should  ever  meet 
again  as  formerly,  ever  take  counsel  together,  that  she  should 
ever  be  made  happy  by  the  reflection  that  she  was  his  friend 
and  comforter. 

Falkner  called  her  attention  by  a  detail  of  his  journey  to 
Belleforest,  and  the  probability  that  slie  would  soon  have  a 
visit  from  her  aunt.  Here  was  a  new  revulsion  ;  Elizabeth 
was  forced  to  remember  that  her  name  was  Raby.  Falkner 
described  the  majestic  beauties  of  the  ancestral  seat  of  her 
family,  tried  to  impress  her  with  the  imposing  grandeur  of 
its  antiquity,  to  interest  her  in  its  religion  and  prejudices,  to 
gild  the  reality  of  pride  and  desertion  with  the  false  colours 
of  principle  and  faith.  He  spoke  of  Mrs.  Raby,  as  he  had 
heard  her  mentioned,  as  a  woman  of  warm  feeling,  strong 
intellect,  and  extreme  generosity.  Elizabeth  listened,  but 
her  eyes  were  fondly  fixed  on  Falkner's  face,  and  at  last 
she  exclaimed  with  spontaneous  earnestness,  "  For  all  this 
I  am  your  child,  and  we  shall  never  be  divided !" 

It  was  now  near  midnight ;  at  each  moment  Falkner  ex- 
pected a  message  from  the  son  of  his  victim.  He  engaged 
Ehzabeth  to  retire  to  her  room,  that  her  suspicions  might 
not  be  excited  by  the  arrival  of  a  visiter  at  that  unaccus- 
tomed hour.  He  was  glad  to  see  her  wholly  unsuspicious 
of  what  he  deemed  the  inevitable  consequence  of  his  con- 
fession ;  for  though  her  thoughts  evidently  wandered,  and 
traces  of  regret  clouded  her  brow,  it  was  regret,  not  fear, 
that  inspired  sadness ;  she  tried  to  cheer,  to  comfort  for  the 
past,  and  gain  fortitude  to  meet  the  future ;  but  that  future 
presented  no  more  appalUng  image  than  the  never  seeing 
Gerard  Neville  more. 

She  went,  and  he  remained  waiting  and  watching  the 
hvelong  night,  but  no  one  came.  The  following  day  passed, 
and  the  same  mysterious   silence  was  observed.    What 


216  PALKNER. 

could  it  mean  1  It  was  impossible  to  accuse  Alithea's  child 
of  lukewarmness  in  her  cause,  or  want  of  courage.  A  sort 
of  dark,  mysterious  fear  crept  over  Falkner's  heart ;  some- 
thing would  be  done ;  some  vengeance  taken.  In  what 
frightful  shape  would  the  ghost  of  the  past  haunt  him  ]  He 
seemed  to  scent  horror  and  disgrace  in  the  very  winds,  yet 
he  was  spell-bound  ;  he  must  await  Neville's  call,  he  must 
remain  as  he  had  promised,  to  offer  the  atonement  demand- 
ed. He  had  felt  glad  and  triumphant  when  lie  believed  that 
reparation  to  be  his  life  in  the  field  ;  but  tlie  delay  was  omin- 
ous ;  he  knew  not  why,  but  at  each  ring  at  tlie  gate,  each 
step  along  the  passages  of  the  house,  his  heart  grew  chill, 
his  soul  quailed.  He  despised  himself  fcr  cowardice,  yet  it 
was  not  that ;  but  he  knew  that  evil  was  at  hand ;  he  pitied 
Elizabeth,  and  he  shrunk  from  himself  as  one  doomed  to 
dishonour  and  unspeakable  misery. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

On  arriving  in  London  from  Hastings,  Neville  had  repaired, 
as  usual,  to  his  father's  house  ;  which,  as  was  to  be  supposed 
at  that  season  of  the  year,  he  found  empty.  On  the  second 
day,  Sir  Boy  vill  presented  himself  unexpectedly.  He  looked 
cold  and  stern  as  ever.  The  father  and  son  met  as  they 
were  wont :  the  latter  anticipating  rebuke  and  angry,  unjust 
commands  ;  the  other  assuming  the  lofty  tone  of  legitimate 
authority,  indignant  at  being  disputed.  "  I  hear  from  So- 
phia," said  Sir  Boy  vill,  "  that  you  are  on  the  point  of  sailing 
for  America,  and  this  without  deigning  to  acquaint  me  with 
your  purpose.  Is  this  fair  1  Common  acquaintances  act 
with  more  ceremony  towards  each  other." 

"  I  feared  your  disapproval,  sir,"  replied  Neville. 

*'  j*ir}(\  thought  it  less  faulty  to  act  without  than  against  a 
father's  consent  •  such  is  the  vulgar  notion ;  but  a  very  erro- 
neous one.  It  douftios  the  injury,  both  to  disobey  me,  and 
to  keep  me  in  the  dark  with  regard  to  my  danger." 

"  But  if  the  danger  be  only  imaginary  1"  observed  his 
son. 

Sir  BoyviU  replied,  "  I  am  not  come  to  argue  with  you, 
nor  to  dissuade,  nor  to  issue  commands.  I  come  with  the 
more  humble  intention  of  being  instructed.  Sophy,  though 
she  evidently  regrets  your  purposed  journey,  yet  avers  that 
it  is  not  so  wild  and  aimless  as  your  expeditions  have  hither- 
to been  ;  that  the  letters  from  Lancaster  did  lead  to  some 
unlooked-for  disclosure.  You  little  know  me  if  you  are  not 
aware  that  I  have  the  question,  which  you  debate  in  so  rash 


FALKNER.  217 

and  boyish  a  manner,  as  deeply  and  more  sorely  at  heart 
than  you.     Let  me  then  he;ir  the  tale  you  have  heard." 

Surprised,  and  even  touched  to  find  his  father  unbend  so 
far  as  to  listen  to  him,  Neville  related  the  American's  story, 
and  the  informHtion  that  it  seemed  prohnble  that  Osborne 
could  afford.  Sir  Boyvjll  listened  attentively,  and  then 
observed,  "  [t  will  be  matter  of  triumph  to  you,  Gerurd,  to 
learn  that  your  strange  perseverance  has  a  little  overcome 
me.  You  are  no  longer  a  mere  lad  ;  and  though  inexpe- 
rienced and  headstrong,  you  have  shown  talents  and  deci- 
sion ;  and  I  am  willing  to  believe,  though  perhaps  I  ara 
wrong,  that  you  are  guided  by  conviction,  and  not  by  a 
blind  wish  to  disobey.  Your  conduct  has  been  consistent 
throughiiut,  and  so  far  is  entitled  to  respect.  But  you  are, 
as  I  have  said  (and  forgive  a  father  for  saying  so),  inexpe- 
rienced— a  mere  child  in  the  world's  ways.  You  go  straight- 
forward to  your  object,  reckless  of  the  remark  that  you  ex- 
cite, and  the  gall  and  wormwood  that  such  remark  imparts. 
Why  will  you  not  in  some  degree  be  swayed  by  me  1  Our 
views,  if  you  would  deign  to  inquire  into  mine,  are  not  so 
dissimilar." 

Neville  knew  not  what  to  answer,  for  every  reply  and 
explanation  were  likely  to  offend.  "  Hitherto,"  continued 
Sir  Boyvill,  "  in  disgust  at  your  wilfulness,  I  have  only 
issued  disregarded  commands.  But  I  am  willing  to  treat  my 
son  as  my  friend,  if  he  will  let  me ;  but  it  must  be  on  one 
condition.     I  exact  one  promise." 

"lam  ready,  sir,"  replied  Neville,  "to  enter  into  any 
engagement  that  does  not  defeat  my  purpose." 

"  It  is  simply,"  said  Sir  Boyvill,  "  that  you  shall  do  no- 
thing without  consulting  me.  I,  on  the  other  hand,  will  prom- 
ise not  to  interfere  by  issuing  orders  which  you  will  not 
obey.  But  if  Ijiere  is  any  sense  in  your  pursuit,  my  counsels 
may  assist.  I  ask  no  more  than  to  offer  advice,  and  to  have 
opportunity  afforded  me  to  express  my  opinion.  Will  you 
not  allow  that  so  much  is  due  to  me  1  Will  you  not  engage  to 
communicate  your  projects,  and  to  acquaint  me  unreserved- 
ly with  every  circumstance  that  falls  to  your  knowledge  I 
This  is  the  limit  of  my  exactions." 

"  Most  willingly  I  make  this  promise,"  exclaimed  Neville. 
"  It  will  indeed  be  my  pride  to  have  your  participation  in  my 
sacred  task." 

"  How  far  I  can  afford  that,"  replied  Sir  Boyvill,  "  depends 
on  the  conduct  you  will  pursue.  With  regard  to  this  Os- 
borne, I  consent  at  once  that  his  story  should  be  sifted  ;  nay, 
that  you  should  go  to  America  for  that  purpose,  while  you 
are  ready  to  engage  that  you  will  not  act  on  any  information 
you  may  gather,  without  mv  knowledge." 

"  You  may  depend,"  said  Gerard,  "  that  I  will  keep  to  the 
letter  of  my  promise ;  and  I  pledge  my  honour,  gladly  and 
1»  K 


^18  FALKNEK. 

unreservedly,  to  tell  you  everything,  to  learn  your  wishes, 
and  to  endeavour  throughout  to  act  with  your  approbation." 

This  concession  made  on  both  sides,  the  father  and  son 
conversed  on  more  unreserved  and  kinder  terms  than  they 
had  ever  before  done.  They  passed  the  evening  together, 
and  though  the  arrogance,  the  wounded  pride,  the  irritated 
feelings,  and  unredeemed  selfishness  of  Sir  Boyvill  betrayed 
themselves  at  every  moment,  Gerard  saw  with  surprise  the 
weakness  masked  by  so  imposing  an  exterior.  His  angry 
commands  and  insulting  blame  had  been  used  as  batteries  to 
defend  the  accessible  part.  He  still  loved  and  regretted 
Alithea ;  he  pined  to  be  assured  of  her  truth ;  but  he  despised 
himself  for  these  emotions — calling  them  feebleness  and 
creduhty.  He  felt  assured  that  his  worst  suspicions  would 
be  proved  true.  She  might  now  be  dead ;  he  thought  it  prob- 
able, that  ere  this  her  faults  and  sorrows  were  hushed  in 
the  grave  :  but  had  she  remained  voluntarily  one  half  hour  in 
the  power  of  the  man  who  had  carried  her  from  her  home,  no 
subsequent  repentance,  no  remorse,  no  suflering  could  excul- 
pate her.  What  he  feared,  was  the  revival  of  a  story  so 
full  of  dishonour — the  dragging  a  mangled  half-formed  talo 
again  before  the  public,  which  would  jeer  his  credulity,  and 
make  merry  over  the  new  gloss  of  a  time-worn  subject. 
When  such  a  notion  occupied  his  brain,  his  heart  swelled 
with  uncontrollable  emotions  of  pride  and  indignation. 

Neville  cared  little  for  the  world.  He  thought  of  his 
mother's  wrongs  and  suflerings.  He  conjured  up  the  long 
years  which  might  have  been  spent  in  wretchedness;  he 
longed,  whatever  she  had  done,  to  feel  her  maternal  embrace, 
to  show  his  gratitude  for  her  early  care  of  him.  This  was 
one  view,  one  class  of  emotions  present  to  his  mind,  when 
any  occurrence  tended  to  shake  his  belief  in  her  unblemish- 
ed honour  and  integrity,  which  was  the  religion  of  his  heart. 
At  the  same  time  he,  as  much  as  his  father,  abhorred  that 
the  indifferent  and  light-hearted,  the  levelling  and  base, 
should  have  any  food  administered  to  their  loathsome  appe- 
tite for  slander.  So  far  as  his  father's  views  were  limited 
to  the  guarding  Alithea's  name  from  further  discussion, 
Neville  honoured  them.  He  showed  Sir  Boyvill  that  he 
was  not  so  imprudent  as  he  seemed,  and  brought  him  at  last 
to  allow  that  some  discovery  might  ensue  from  his  voyage. 
This  open-hearted  and  peaceful  interchange  of  sentiment 
between  them  was  very  cheering  to  both  ;  and  when  Gerard 
visited  Elizabeth  the  following  day,  his  spirit  was  lighter 
and  happier  than  it  had  ever  been,  and  love  was  there  to 
mingle  its  roseate  visions  with  the  sterner  calls  of  duty. 
He  entered  Falkner's  house  with  much  of  triumph,  and 
more  of  hope  gladdening  his  heart ;  he  left  it  horror-struck, 
aghast,  and  almost  despairing. 


FALKNEU.  219 

He  would  not  return  to  his  father.  EHzabeth's  supposi- 
tion that  Falkner  spoice  under  a  delusion,  produced  by  sudden 
insanity  ;  and  his  reluctance  that  while  doubt  hung  over  the 
event,  that  her  dear  name  should  be  needlessly  mixed  up 
with  the  tragedy  of  his  mother's  death,  restrained  him.  He 
resolved  at  once  to  take  no  final  step  till  the  evening,  till  he 
had  again  seen  Elizabeth,  and  learned  what  foundation  there 
was  for  ihe  tremendous  avowal  that  still  rung  in  his  ears. 
The  evening — he  had  mentioned  the  evening — but  would  it 
ever  come?  till  then  he  walked  in  a  frightful  dream.  He 
first  went  to  the  docks,  withdrew  his  luggage,  and  yet  left 
word  that  by  possibility  he  might  still  join  the  vessel  at 
Sheerness.  He  did  this,  for  he  was  glad  to  give  himself 
something  to  do  ;  and  yet,  soon  after,  how  gladly  would  he 
have  exchanged  those  hours  of  suspense  for  the  certainty 
that  too  quickly  came  like  a  sudden  ray  of  light,  to  show  that 
he  had  long  been  walking  at  the  edge  of  a  giddy  precipice. 
He  received  the  packet  and  letter  from  the  servant ;  dizzy 
and  confounded  he  rode  away ;  by  the  light  of  the  first 
lamp  he  read  Elizabeth's  letter ;  it  disordered  the  current  of 
his  blood,  it  confused  and  maddened  the  functions  of  reason  ; 
putting  spurs  to  his  horse,  he  galloped  furiously  on  till  he 
reached  his  father's  house. 

Sir  Boyvill  was  seated  solitarily  in  his  drawing-room, 
sipping  his  coffee,  and  indulging  in  various  thought.  His 
wedded  life  with  Alithea — her  charms,  her  admirable  quali- 
ties, and  sweet,  endearing  disposition — occupied  him  as  they 
had  never  done  before  since  her  flight.  For  the  first  time, 
the  veil,  woven  by  anger  and  vanity,  fell  from  his  e3'es,  and 
he  saw  distinctly  the  rashness  and  injustice  of  his  past 
actions-  He  became  convinced  that  deceit  could  never 
have  had  a  part  in  her;  did  not  her  child  resemble  her,  and 
was  he  not  truth  itself  ?  He  had  nourished  an  aversion  to 
his  son,  as  her  offspring;  now  he  looked  on  his  virtues  as 
an  inheritance  derived  from  his  sweet  mother,  and  his  heart 
instinctively,  unaccountably,  warmed  towards  both. 

Gerard  opened  the  door  of  the  room  and  looked  in ;  Sir 
Boyvill  could  hardly  have  recognised  him,  his  face  whiter 
than  marble,  his  eyes  wild  and  wandering,  his  whole  coun- 
tenance convulsed,  his  person  shrunk  up  and  writhing.  He 
threw  the  packet  on  the  table,  crying  out,  "  Victory,  my 
father,  victory  !"  in  a  voice  so  shrill  and  dissonant,  so  near 
a  shriek,  as  to  inspire  his  auditor  with  fear  rather  than 
triumph:  "Read!  read!"  he  continued,  "  I  have  not  yet — 
I  keep  my  word,  you  shall  know  all,  even  before  me — and 
yet,  I  do  know  all,  I  have  seen  my  mother's  destroyer  !  She 
is  dead !" 

Sir  BojTill  now,  in  some  degree,  comprehended  his  son's 
agitation.  He  saw  that  he  was  too  much  excited  to  act  with 
any  calmness ;  he  could  not  guess  how  he  had  discovered 

K2 


220  FALKNER. 

the  villain  on  whom  both  would  desire  to  heap  endless,  un- 
saiiable  revenge;  but  he  did  not  wonder,  that  if  he  had  real- 
ly encountered  this  mfin,  and  learned  his  deeds,  that  he 
should  be  transported  into  a  sort  of  phrensy.  He  took  up  the 
packet — he  cut  the  string  that  tied  it — he  turned  over  the 
papers,  and  his  brow  darkened.  '"Here  is  a  long  narrative," 
he  said  ;  "  there  is  much  of  excuse,  and  much  of  explanation 
here.  The  story  ought  to  be  short  that  exculpates  her;  1  do 
not  like  these  varni^hings  of  the  simple  truth." 

"  You  will  find  none,"  said  Neville  ;  "  at  least,  I  heard  none. 
His  words  were  direct — his  avowal  contained  no  subterfuge." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak  V  asked  Sir  Boyvill. 

"Read,"  said  Neville,  •'  and  you  will  know  more  than  I ; 
but  half  an  hour  ago  those  papers  were  put  into  iriy  hands. 
I  have  not  read  them.  1  give  them  to  you  before  I  am  aware 
of  their  contents,  that  I  might  fully  acquit  myself  of  my  prom- 
ise. They  come  from  Rupert  Falkner,  my  mother's  de- 
Blroyer." 

••  Leave  me  then  to  my  task,"  said  Sir  Boyvill,  in  an  al- 
tered and  subdued  tone.  "  You  speak  of  strange  things ; 
facts  to  undo  a  frightful  past,  and  to  generate  a  future  dedi- 
cated to  a  new  revenge.  Leave  me;  let  me  remain  alone 
while  I  read — while  I  ponder  on  what  credit  I  may  give — 
what  course  I  must  pursue.  Leave  me,  Gerard.  1  have 
long  injured  you,  but  at  last  you  will  be  repaid.  Come  back 
in  a  few  hours ;  the  moment  I  am  master  of  the  contents 
of  the  manuscript  I  will  see  you." 

Gerard  left  him.  He  had  scarcely  been  aware  of  what  he 
was  doing  when  he  carried  the  packet,  unopened,  unexam- 
ined, to  his  father.  He  had  feared  that  he  might  be  tempted 
— to  what  ? — to  conceal  his  mother's  vindication'!  Never  ! 
Yet  the  responsibility  sat  heavy  on  him ;  and,  driven  by  an 
irresistible  impulse,  he  had  resolved  to  deprive  himself  of 
all  power  of  acting  basely  by  giving  at  once  publicity  to  all 
that  passed.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  felt  as  if  he  had 
applied  a  match  to  some  fatal  rocket  which  would  carry 
destruction  to  the  very  temple  and  shrine  of  his  dearest 
hopes — to  Elizabeth's  happiness  and  life.  But  the  deed  was 
done  ;  he  could  but  shut  his  eyes  and  let  the  mortal  ball  pro- 
ceed towards  its  destined  prey. 

Gerard  was  young.  He  aspired  to  happiness  with  all  the 
ardour  of  youth.  While  we  are  young  we  feel  as  if  happi- 
ness were  the  birthright  of  humanity  ;  after  a  long  and  cruel 
apprenticeship,  we  disengage  ourselves  from  this  illusion — 
or  from  (a  yet  more  difficult  sacrifice)  the  realities  that  pro- 
duce felicity — for  on  earth  there  are  such,  though  they  are 
too  often  linked  with  adjuncts  that  make  the  purchase  of 
them  cost  in  the  end  peace  of  mind  and  a  pure  conscieftce. 
Thus  was  it  with  Gerard.  With  Elizabeth,  winning  her 
love  and  making  her  his  own,  he  felt  assured  of  a  life  of 


FALKNER.  221 

happiness;  but  to  sacrifice  his  mother's  name — the  holy  task 
to  which  he  had  dedicated  himself  from  childhood — for  the 
sake  of  obtaining  her — it  must  not  be  ! 

With  this  thought  came  destruction  to  the  fresh-sprung 
hopes  that  adorned  his  existence.  Gerard's  poetic  and  ten- 
der nature  led  him  to  form  sweet  dreams  of  joys  derived 
from  a  union  which  would  be  cemented  by  affection,  sym- 
pathy, and  enthusiastic  admiration  of  the  virtues  of  his  com- 
panion. In  Elizabeth  he  had  beheld  the  imbodying  of  all 
his  wishes  ;  in  her  eyes  he  had  read  their  accomplishment. 
Her  love  for  her  father  had  first  awakened  his  love.  Her 
wise,  simple,  upright  train  of  thinking — the  sensibility  enno- 
bled by  self-command,  yet  ever  ready  to  spring  forth  and 
comfort  the  unhappy — her  generosity — her  total  abnegation 
of  self — her  understanding  so  just  and  true,  yet  tempered 
with  feminine  aptitude  to  adapt  itself  to  the  situation  and 
sentiments  of  others — all  these  qualities,  discovered  one  by- 
one,  and  made  dear  by  the  friendship  she  displayed  towards 
him,  had  opened  the  hitherto  closed  gates  of  the  world's 
only  paradise  ;  and  now  he  found  that,  as  the  poet  says,  evil 
had  entered  even  there — "  and  the  trail  of  the  serpent" 
marked  with  slimy  poison  the  fairest  and  purest  of  Eden's 
flowers.* 

Neville  had  looked  forward  to  a  life  of  blameless  but  ec- 
static happiness,  as  her  friend,  her  protector,  her  husband. 
Youth,  without  being  presumptuous,  is  often  sanguine. 
Prodigal  of  self,  it  expects,  as  of  right,  a  full  return.  Ready 
to  assist  Elizabeth  in  her  task  of  watching  over  her  father's 
health — who,  in  his  eyes,  was  wasting  gradually  away — he 
felt  that  he  should  be  near  to  soften  her  regrets,  and  fill  his 
place,  and  sooth  her  sinking  spirits  Avhen  struck  by  a  loss 
which  to  her  would  seem  so  dire. 

And  now — Falkner !  He  believed  him  to  be  in  a  state  of 
health  that  did  not  leave  liim  many  years  to  live.  He  recol- 
lected him  at  Marseilles,  stretched  on  his  couch,  feeble  as 
an  infant,  the  hues  of  death  on  his  broAv.  He  thought  of 
him  as  he  had  seen  him  that  morning — his  figure  bent  by 
disease — his  face  ashy  pale  and  worn.  He  was  the  man 
whom,  thirteen  years  before,  he  remembered  in  upright, 
proud,  and  youthful  strength ;  wo  and  disease  had  brought 
on  the  ravages  of  age — he  was  struck  by  premature  decay— 
a  few  years,  by  the  course  of  nature,  he  would  be  laid  in  his 
grave.  But  Gerard  eould  not  leave  him  this  respite — he 
must  at  once  meet  him  in  such  encounter  as  must  end  in  the 
death  of  one  of  the  combatants — whichever  that  might  be, 

*  "  Alas,  for  man !  said  the  pitying  spirit, 
Dearly  you  pay  for  your  primal  fall ! 
Some  flowers  of  Eden  you  still  inherit, 

But  the  trail  of  the  serpent  is  over  them  all." 

Poradii*  and  th«  Piri. 

in* 


22S  PALKNER. 

there  was  no  hope  for  Elizabeth — in  either  case  she  lost  her 
all — in  either  case  Falkner  would  die,  and  an  insuperable 
barrier  be  raised  between  her  and  her  only  other  friend. 
Neville's  ardent  and  gentle  spirit  quivered  with  agony  as  he 
thought  of  these  things.  "  Oh  ye  destructive  powers  of  na- 
ture !"  he  cried;  "come  all!  Storm,  flood,  and  fire,  min- 
gled in  one  dire  whirlwind;  or  bring  the  deadlier  tortures 
tyrants  have  inflicted  and  martyrs  undergone,  and  say,  can 
any  agony  equal  tliat  which  convulses  the  human  heart 
when  writhing  under  contending  passions — torn  by  contrary 
purposes !  This  very  morning  Elizabeth  was  all  the  universe 
of  hope  and  joy.  I  would  not  for  worlds  have  injured  one 
hair  of  her  dear  head — and  now  1  meditate  a  deed  that  is  to 
consign  her  to  eternal  grief." 

Athwart  this  tumult  of  thought  came  the  recollection  that 
he  was  still  in  ignorance  of  the  truth.  He  called  to  mind 
the  narrative  which  his  father  was  then  reading  ;  would  it 
reveal  aught  that  must  alter  the  line  of  conduct  which  he 
now  considered  inevitable !  A  devouring  curiosity  was 
awakened.  Leaving  his  father,  he  had  rushed  into  the  open 
air,  in  obedience  to  the  instinct  that  always  leads  the  un- 
quiet mind  to  seek  the  solace  of  bodily  activity.  He  had 
hurried  into  Hyde  Park,  which  then,  in  the  dimness  of  night, 
appeared  a  wide  expanse — a  limitless  waste.  He  hurried 
to  and  fro  on  the  turf — he  saw  nothing,  he  was  aware  of 
nothing,  except  the  internal  war  that  shook  him.  Now,  as 
he  felt  the  eager  desire  to  get  quit  of  doubt,  he  fancied  that 
several  hours  must  have  elapsed,  and  that  his  father  must 
be  waiting  for  him.  The  clocks  of  London  struck — he 
Counted — it  was  but  eleven — he  had  been  there  scarcely 
more  than  an  hour. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

NEViiiLE  returned  home — he  paused  at  the  drawing-room 
door — a  slight  noise  indicated  that  his  father  was  within — 
his  hand  was  on  the  lock,  but  he  retreated  ;  he  would  not 
intrude  uncalled  for — he  wandered  through  the  dark,  empty 
rooms,  till  a  bell  rang.  Sir  Boyvill  inquired  for  him — he 
hurried  into  his  presence — he  devoured  the  expression  of 
his  countenance  with  his  eyes,  trying  to  read  the  thought 
Avithin.  Sir  Boyvill's  face  was  usually  stamped  with  an  un- 
varying expression  of  cold  self-possession,  mingled  with 
sarcasm.  These  feelings  were  now  at  their  height — his 
aged  countenance,  withered  and  deep  lined,  was  admirably 
calculated  to  depict  the  couceatrated  disdain  that  sat  upon 


FALKNER.  S2S 

his  lips  and  elevated  his  brows.  He  pointed  to  the  papers 
before  him,  and  said  in  a  composed,  yet  hollow  voice, 
"  Take  these  away — read,  for  it  is  necessary  you  should — 
tne  amplified  confession  of  themurderer." 

Gerard's  blood  ran  cold.  "  Yet  why  call  it  a  confession," 
continued  Sir  Boyvill,  his  assumed  contempt  rising  into 
angry  scorn  ;  "  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  it  is  a  lie. 
He  would  Viirnish  over  his  unparalleled  guilt — he  would 
shelter  himself  fi-om  its  punishment,  but  in  vain.  Read, 
Gerard — read  and  be  satisfied.  I  have  wronged  your  moth- 
er— she  was  innocent — murdered.  Be  assured  that  her  vin- 
dication shall  be  heard  as  loudly  as  her  accusation,  and 
that  her  destroyer  shall  die  to  expiate  her  death." 

"  Be  that  my  task,"  said  Gerard,  trembling  and  pale  from 
the  conflict  of  passion;  "I  take  the  office  of  vengeance  on 
myself — I  will  meet  Mr.  Falkner." 

"  Ha !  you  think  of  a  duel  !"  cried  his  father.  "  Remem- 
ber your  promise,  young  man — I  hold  you  strictly  to  it — you 
do  nothing  without  first  communicating  with  me.  You 
must  read  these  papers  before  you  decide  ;  I  have  decided 
— be  not  afraid,  1  shall  not  forestall  your  purpose,  I  will  not 
challenge  the  murderer:  but.  in  return  for  this  pledge,  give 
me  your  word  that  you  have  no  communication  with  the 
villain  till  you  see  me  again.  I  will  not  balk  you  of  your 
revenge,  be  sure  of  that;  but  you  must  see  nie  first." 

"  I  promise,"  said  Gerard. 

"  And  one  word  more,"  continued  Sir  Boyvill ;  "  is  there 
any  possibility  of  this  man's  escape  !  Is  he  wrapped  in  the 
security  which  his  lie  affords,  or  has  he  even  now  fled  be- 
yond our  vengeance  ?" 

"  Be  his  crimes  what  they  may,"  replied  Neville,  "I  be- 
lieve him  to  entertain  a  delicate  sense  of  worldly  honour. 
He  has  promised  to  remain  in  his  home  till  he  hears  from 
me.  He  doubtless  expects  to  be  challenged,  and  I  verily 
believe  desires  to  die.  I  feel  convinced  that  the  idea  of 
flight  has  not  crossed  his  mind." 

"  Enough  ;  good-night.  We  are  now  one,  Gerard  ;  united 
by  our  love  and  honour  for  your  wronged  mother's  memory, 
and  by  our  revenge  ;  dissimilar  only  in  this,  that  my  desire 
to  repair  her  injuries  is  more  vehement  even  than  yours." 
Sir  Boyvill  pressed  his  son's  hand,  and  left  him.  A  few 
minutes  afterward,  it  would  seem,  he  quitted  the  house. 

"  Now  to  my  task,"  thought  Neville  ;  "  and  O,  thou  God, 
who  watchest  over  the  innocent,  and  yet  gavest  the  inno- 
cent into  the  hands  of  the  destroyer,  rule  thou  the  throb- 
bings  of  my  heart ;  that  neither  mad  hate  nor  hunger  for 
revenge  take  away  my  human  nature,  and  turn  me  into  a 
fiend '." 

He  took  up  the  manuscript ;  at  first  the  words  seemed 
written  in  fire,  but  he  grew  calmer  as  ho  found  how  far  back 


234  PALKNER. 

the  nai-ration  went ;  and  curiosity  succeeding  to  devouring 
impatience,  he  became  attentive. 

He  read  and  pitied.  All  that  awoke  Sir  Boyvill's  ire  ; 
Falkner's  presumption  in  daring  to  love,  and  his  long-cher- 
ished constancy,  excited  his  compassion.  When  he  came 
to  the  account  of  the  meeting  of  the  forsaken  lover  and 
happy  husband,  he  found,  in  the  epithets  so  liberally  be- 
stowed in  the  contemptuous  description  of  his  father,  a 
cause  for  his  augmented  desire  for  vengeance.  When  he 
read  that  his  mother  herself  repined,  herself  spoke  dispar- 
agingly of  her  husband,  he  wondered  at  the  mildness  of 
Sir  Boyvill's  expressions  with  regard  to  her,  and  began  to 
suspect  that  some  strange  and  appalling  design  must  be 
working  in  his  head  to  produc-?  this  unnatural  composure. 
The  rest  was  madness,  madness  and  misery,  thus  to  take  a 
wife  and  mother  from  her  home,  to  gratify  the  insane  de- 
sire to  exert  for  one  half  hour  a  power  he  had  lost  for  ever ; 
the  vain  hope  of  turning  her  from  her  duties,  which  at  least, 
as  far  as  her  children  were  concerned,  were  the  dearest 
part  of  herself;  her  terror,  her  incapacity  of  mastering  her 
alarm,  the  night  of  insensibility  which  she  passed  in  the  hut 
— with  a  start,  Gerard  felt  sure  that  he  had  seen  and  marked 
that  very  spot ;  all  wrought  him  up  to  the  height  of  breath- 
less interest ;  till,  when  he  read  the  sad  end  of  all,  cold  dew 
gathered  on  his  brow,  the  tears  that  filled  his  eyes  changed 
to  convulsive  sobbings,  and,  despite  his  manhood,  he  wept 
with  the  agony  of  a  child. 

He  ended  the  tale,  and  he  thought — "  Yes,  there  is  but 
one  termination  to  this  tragedy ;  I  must  avenge  my  sweet 
mother,  and,  by  the  death  of  Falkner,  proclaim  her  inno- 
cence." But  wherefore,  it  came  across  his  mind,  had  his 
father  called  him  murderer  T  in  intention  and  very  deed 
he  was  none  ;  why  term  the  narrative  a  lie  1  He  followed 
it  word  by  word,  and  felt  that  truth  was  stamped  in  every 
line. 

The  house  was  still ;  it  was  two  in  the  morning.  Had 
his  father  retired  to  rest  ?  He  had  been  so  absorbed  by  his 
occupation,  that  he  had  heard  no  sound,  knew  nothing  that 
might  have  been  passing  around.  He  remembered  at  last 
Sir  Boyvill's  good-night,  and  believing,  as  all  was  hushed, 
that  all  slept,  he  retij-ed  to  his  own  room.  He  could  not 
think  of  Elizabeth,  or  of  the  projected  duel ;  he  could  think 
only  of  the  narrative  he  had  read.  When  in  bed,  unable 
to  sleep,  he  rose,  lighted  his  candle,  and  read  much  of  it 
again  :  he  pondered  over  every  word  in  the  concluding 
pages  ;  it  was  all  true,  he  would  have  staked  his  existence 
on  the  accuracy  of  every  word  :  was  it  not  stamped  on 
Falkner's  brow,  as  he  had  seen  liim  but  a  few  hours  ago? 
sad,  and  worn  with  grief  and  suffering,  but  without  the  stain 
of  concealed  guilt,  lofty  in  its  very  wo.     It  was  break  of 


FALKNER.  225 

day,  just  as  Gerard  was  thinking  of  rising  to  find  and  con- 
sult with  his  father,  that  sleep  crept  unawares  over  him. 
Sleep  will  visit  the  young  unbidden ;  he  had  suffered  so 
much  fatigue  of  mind  and  body,  that  nature  sought  relief; 
sleep,  at  first  disturbed,  but  soon  profound  and  refreshing, 
steeped  his  distracted  thoughts  in  peace,  his  wearied  limbs 
in  delightful  repose. 

The  morning  was  far  advanced  when  he  awoke,  refreshed, 
ready  to  meet  the  necessities  of  the  hour,  grieved,  but  com- 
posed, sad,  but  strengthened  and  resolved.  He  inquired  for 
his  father,  and  heard,  to  his  infinite  astonishment,  ^that  he 
had  left  town :  he  had  set  out  in  his  travelling  carriage  at 
four  that  morning;  a  note  from  him  was  put  into  Neville's 
hands.  It  contained  few  words:  "  Remember  your  engage- 
ment— that  you  take  no  steps  with  regard  to  Mr.  Falkner 
till  you  have  seen  me.  I  am  setting  out  for  Dromore  ;  on 
my  return,  which  will  be  speedy,  I  will  communicate  my 
wishes,  to  which  I  do  not  doubt  you  will  accede." 

Neville  was  startled  ;  he  guessed  at  once  Sir  Boyviirs 
aim  in  the  sudden  journey ;  but  was  he  not  a  fit  partner  in 
such  an  act  1  ought  he  not  to  share  in  the  duty  of  rendering 
honour  to  his  mother's  grave  ]  He  felt  that  he  ought  to  be 
at  his  father's  side,  and,  ordering  his  own  chariot,  set  out 
with  the  hope  of  overtaking  him. 

But  Sir  Boyvill  travelled  with  equal  speed,  and  was  many 
miles  and  many  hours  in  advance.  Gerard  hoped  to  come 
up  with  him  when  he  slopped  at  night.  But  the  old  gentle- 
man was  so  eager  in  his  pursuit,  that  he  prosecuted  his 
journey  without  rest.  Gerard  continued  in  the  same  way  ; 
travelling  alone,  he  revolved  again  and  again  all  that  must 
be,  all  that  might  have  been.  Whatever  happened,  he  was 
divided  from  Elizabeth  for  ever.  Did  she  love  him  ]  he  had 
scarcely  questioned  the  return  his  afteclion  would  one  day 
meet,  till  now  that  he  had  lost  her  for  ever  ;  and  like  a  true 
lover,  earnestly  desirous  to  preserve  some  property  in  her 
he  loved,  he  cherished  the  hope  that  she  would  share  his 
deep  regrets,  and  so  prove  that  in  heart  they  were  one. 
How  pleasant  were  the  days  they  had  passed  at  Oakly;  all 
his  sorrows  there,  and  his  passionate  desire  to  unveil  the 
mystery  of  his  mother's  fate,  how  had  it  given  an  interest 
to  each  hour,  and  imparted  an  untold  and  most  sweet  grace 
to  the  loved  Elizabeth,  that  she  should  sympathize  with  so 
much  fervour  and  kindness. 

How  strange  the  chance  that  led  the  daughter  of  the  de- 
stroyer to  share  the  feelings  of  the  unhappy  victim's  son; 
yet  stranger  still  that  that  destroyer  had  a  child.  Rambling 
among  many  tangled  thoughts,  Gerard  started  when  first 
this  idea  suggested  itself.  Where  was  Falkner's  boasted 
fidelity,  on  which  he  laid  claim  to  compassion  and  pardon ; 
where  his  assertion,  that  all  his  soul  was  centred  in  Ali- 
K3 


226  FALKNER. 

thea  ?  and  this  child,  an  angel  from  her  birth,  was  even  then 
born  to  him ;  he  opened  the  writing-case  which  contained 
the  papers,  and  which  he  carried  with  him ;  he  referred  to 
them  for  explanation.  Yes,  Ehzabeth  then  lived,  and  was 
not  far  from  him  ;  her  hand  had  staid  his  arm,  raised  against 
his  life.  It  was  not  enough  that  the  phrensy  of  passion 
urged  him  to  tear  Alithea  from  her  home  and  children,  but 
even  the  existence  of  his  own  daughter  was  no  restraint, 
he  was  vvilhng  to  doom  her  from  very  childhood  to  a  part- 
nership in  guilt  and  misery.  Hitherto,  despite  all,  and  in 
despite  of  his  resolve  to  meet  him  in  mortal  encounter,  Ne- 
ville had  pitied  Falkner;  but  now  his  heart  grew  hard 
against  him ;  he  began  to  revolve  thoughts  similar  to  those 
expressed  by  Sir  Boyvill,  and  to  call  Elizabeth's  father  an 
impostor,  his  tale  a  he.  He  reread  the  manuscript  with  a 
new  feeling  of  skepticism ;  this  time  he  was  against  the 
writer,  he  detected  exaggeration,  where,  before,  he  had  only 
found  the  energy  of  passion ;  he  saw  an  attempt  to  gloss 
over  guilt,  where,  before,  he  had  read  merely  the  struggles 
of  conscience,  the  innate  innocence  of  profound  feeling, 
combating  with  the  guilt,  which  circumstances  may  impart 
to  our  loftiest  emotions  ;  his  very  sufferings  became  but  the 
just  visitation  of  angry  Heaven ;  he  was  a  wretch,  whom 
to  kill  were  mercy — and  Elizabeth,  beautiful,  generous,  and 
pure,  was  his  child ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

That  night  was  spent  in  travelling,  and  without  any 
sleep.  Neville  saw  the  day  break  in  melancholy  guise, 
struggling  with  the  clouds,  with  which  a  southeast  wind 
veiled  the  sky.  Nature  looked  bleak  and  desolate,  even 
though  she  was  still  dressed  in  her  summer  garments.  It  was 
only  the  latter  end  of  August,  but  so  changeable  is  our  cli- 
mate, that  the  bright  festive  days  which  he  had  lately  en- 
joyed in  Sussex  were  already  followed  by  chill  and  dreary 
precursors  of  the  year's  dechne.  Gerard  reached  Dromore 
at  about  noon.  He  learned  that  his  father  had  arrived  du- 
ring the  night— he  had  slept  a  few  hours,  but  was  already 
gone  out ;  it  appeared  that  he  had  ridden  over  to  a  neigh 
hour,  Mr.  Ashley ;  for  he  had  inquired  if  he  were  in  the 
county,  and  had,  with  his  groom,  both  on  horseback,  taken 
the  road  that  led  toward  his  house. 

Neville  hastily  took  some  refreshment,  while  he  ordered 
a  horse  to  be  saddled.  His  heart  led  him  to  seek  and  view 
&  spot  which  he  had  once  before  visited,  and  which  seemed 


FALKNER.  227 

accurately  described  in  Falkner's  narrative.  He  left  behind 
him  the  woods  of  Droniore,  and  the  foldings  of  the  green 
hills  in  which  it  was  situated — he  descended  towards  the 
barren,  dreary  shore — the  roar  of  ocean  soon  met  his 
car,  and  he  reached  the  waste  sands  that  border  that  mel- 
ancholy coast — he  saw  the  line  of  sand-hills,  which  formed 
a  sort  of  bulwark  against  the  tide — he  reached  at  length  a 
rapid,  yet  shallow  stream,  Avhich  was  but  about  twenty 
yards  wide,  flowing  over  a  rough  bottom  of  pebbles ;  the 
eye  easily  reached  its  utmost  depth,  it  could  not  be  more 
than  two  feet.  Could  that  be  the  murderous,  furious  estuary 
in  which  his  mother  had  been  borne  away  !  he  looked  across 
— there  stood  the  hut — there  the  moss-grown,  leafless  oak, 
and  gathered  round  it  was  a  crowd  of  men.  His  father-,  and 
two  or  three  other  gentlemen  on  horseback,  were  stationed 
near — while  aome  labourers  were  throwing  up  the  sand  be- 
neath the  withered  trunk.  When  we  have  long  thought  of 
and  grieved  over  an  incident — if  any  outward  object  bring 
the  image  of  our  thoughts  bodily  before  us,  it  is  strange 
what  an  accession  of  emotion  stirs  the  depths  of  the  heart. 
For  many  hours  Neville's  mind  had  dwelt  upon  the  scene 
in  all  its  parts — the  wild  waste  sea,  dark  and  purple  beneath 
the  lowering  clouds — the  dreary  extent  of  beach — the  far, 
stupendous  mountains,  thrown  up  in  sublime,  irregular  gran- 
deur, with  cloud-capped  peaks,  and  vast  gulfs  between — a  sort 
of  Cyclopean  screen  to  the  noble  landscape,  which  they  en- 
compassed with  their  wide  majestic  extent — his  reflections 
had  selected  the  smaller  objects — the  river,  the  hut,  the 
monumental  tree ;  and  it  seemed  as  if  actual  vision  could 
not  bring  it  home  more  truly ;  but  when  he  actually  beheld 
these  objects,  and  the  very  motive  of  his  coming  was  re- 
vealed, as  it  were,  by  the  occupation  of  the  men  at  work, 
his  young  heart,  unhardened  by  many  sufferings,  sickened, 
the  tears  rushed  into  his  eyes,  and  the  words — "  Oh  my 
mother!"'  burst  from  his  lips.  It  was  a  spasm  of  uncon- 
trollable pain — an  instant  afterward  he  had  mastered  it,  and 
guiding  his  horse  througli  the  ford,  with  tranquil  mien, 
though  pale  and  sad,  he  took  his  station  abreast  with  his 
father.  Sir  Boyvill  turned  as  he  rode  up ;  he  manifested 
no  surprise,  but  he  looked  thankful,  and  even  triumphant, 
Gerard  thought ;  and  the  young  man  himself,  as  he  con- 
templated the  glazed  eyes  and  attenuated  form  of  his  parent, 
which  spoke  of  the  weight  of  years,  despite  his  sjtill  upright 
carriage,  and  the  stern  expression  of  his  face,  felt  that  his 
right  place  was  at  his  side,  to  render  the  support  of  his 
youthful  strength  and  active  faculties.  The  men  went  ou 
with  their  work  in  silence,  nor  did  any  speak  ;  the  sand 
■was  thrown  up  in  heaps,  the  horses  pawed  the  ground  im- 
patiently, and  the  hollow  murmurs  of  the  neighbouring 
breakers  filled  every  pause  with  sound,  but  no  voice  spoke  -, 


228  FALKNER. 

or  if  one  of  the  labourers  had  a  direction  to  give,  it  was  done 
in  whispers.  At  length  some  harder  substance  opposed 
their  progress,  and  they  worked  more  cautiously.  Mingled 
with  sand  they  threw  out  pieces  of  dark  substance  like  cloth 
or  silk,  and  at  length  got  out  of  the  -wide  long  trench  they 
had  been  opening.  With  one  consent,  though  in  silence, 
every  one  gathered  nearer,  and  looked  in — they  saw  a 
human  skeleton.  The  action  of  the  elements,  which  the 
sands  had  not  been  able  to  impede,  had  destroyed  every 
vestige  of  a  human  frame,  except  those  discoloured  bones, 
and  long  tresses  of  dark  hair,  which  were  wound  around  the 
scull.  A  universal  yet  suppressed  groan  burst  from  all. 
Gerard  felt  inclined  to  leap  into  the  grave,  but  the  thought 
of  the  many  eyes  all  gazing  acted  as  a  check ;  and  a  second 
instinctive  feeling  of  pious  reverence  induced  him  to  un- 
fasten his  large  black  horseman's  cloak,  and  to  cast  it  over 
the  opening.  Sir  Boyvill  then  broke  the  silence  :  "  You 
have  done  well,  my  son :  let  no  man  lift  that  covering,  or 
in  any  way  disturb  the  remains  beneath.  Do  you  know, 
my  friends,  who  lies  there  ?  Do  you  remember  the  night 
when  Mrs.  Neville  was  carried  off  I  The  country  was  raised, 
but  we  sought  for  her  in  vain.  On  that  night  she  was  mur- 
dered, and  was  buried  here." 

A  hollow  murmur  ran  through  the  crowd,  already  aug- 
mented by  several  stragglers,  who  had  heard  that  something 
strange  was  going  on.  All  pressed  forward,  though  but  to 
see  the  cloak,  now  become  an  object  of  curiosity  and  interest. 
Several  remembered  the  lady,  whose  mouldered  remains 
were  thus  revealed,  in  the  pride  of  youth  and  beauty,  warm 
of  heart,  kind,  beloved ;  and  this  was  all  left  of  her !  these 
unseemly  bones  were  all  earth  had  to  show  of  the  ever 
sweet  Alithea ! 

''  Mr.  Ashley  kindly  assists  me,"  continued  Sir  Boyvill ; 
"  we  are  both  magistrates.  The  coroner  is  already  sent  for, 
a  jury  will  be  summoned  ;  when  that  duly  is  performed,  the 
remains  of  my  unfortunate,  much-wronged  wife  will  be  fitly 
interred.  These  ceremonies  are  necessary  for  the  punish- 
ment of  the  murderer.  We  know  him,  he  cannot  escape ; 
and  you,  every  one  of  you,  will  rejoice  in  that  vengeance 
which  will  be  mine  at  last." 

Execrations  against  the  villain  burst  from  every  lip;  yet 
even  then  each  eye  turned  from  old  Sir  Boyvill,  whose  vin- 
dictive nature  had  been  showed  before  towards  the  hapless 
victim  herself,  to  the  young  man,  the  son,  whose  grief  and 
pious  zeal  had  been  the  theme  of  many  a  gossip's  story,  and 
who  now,  pale  and  mute  as  he  was,  showed,  in  his  intent 
and  wo-struck  gaze,  more  true  touch  of  natural  sorrow  than 
Sir  Boyvill's  wordy  harangue  could  denote. 

"  We  must  appoint  constables  to  guard  this  place,"  said 
Sir  Boj^ill. 


CALKNER.  S89 

Mr.  Ashley  assented  ;    the  proper  arrangements  were 

made  ;  the  curious  were  to  be  kept  off,  and  two  servants 

^  from  Dromore  were  added  to  the  constables ;  tlien  the  gen- 

.  tlenien  rode  off.     Neville,  bewildered,  desirous  to  stay  to 

look  once  again  on  what  had  been  his  mother,  yet  averse  to 

-  the  vulgar  gaze,  followed  them  at  a  slower  pace,  till  Mr. 

-  Ashley,  taking  leave  of  Sir  Boyvill,  rode  away,  and  he  per- 
;  ceived  that  his  father  was  waiting  for  him,  and  that  he  must 

join  him. 

"Thank  you,  my  son,"  said  Sir  Boyvill,  "for  your  zeal 
1  and  timely   arrival.     I  expected  it  of  you.     We  are  one 
now  ;  one  to  honour  your  mother;  one  in  our  revenge.  You 
will  not  this  lime  refuse  your  evidence." 

.  "  Do  you  then  believe  that  Mr.  Falkner  is  actually  a  mur- 
derer V  cried  Neville. 

"  Let  the  laws  of  his  country  decide  on  that  question," 
replied  Sir  Boyvill,  with  a  sneering  laugh.  "  I  bring  for- 
ward the  facts  only — you  do  the  satne ;  let  the  laws  of  his 
country  and  a  jury  of  his  equals  acquit  or  condemn  him." 

"Your  design,  then,  is  to  bring  him  to  a  trial!"  asked 
Gerard.     "  I  should  have  thought  that  the  publicity — " 

"  I  design,"  cried  Sir  Boyvill,  with  uncontrolled  passion, 
"  to  bring  him  to  a  fate  more  miserable  than  his  victim's ; 
and  I  thank  all-seeing  Heaven,  which  places  such  ample  re- 
venge in  my  hands.  He  will  die  by  the  hands  of  the  hang- 
man, and  I  shall  be  satisfied." 

There  was  something  horrible  in  the  old  man's  look  and 
voice ;  he  gloated  on  the  foul  disgrace  about  to  be  heaped 
on  his  enemy.  The  chivalrous  notions  of  Gerard,  a  duel 
between  the  destroyer  and  liis  victim's  son,  was  a  paltry, 
trifling  vengeance,  compared  with  the  ignominy  he  contem- 
plated. "  Was  not  the  accusation  against  your  mother 
loud,"  continued  Sir  Boyvill,  "  public,  universal  ?  Did  not 
the  assembled  parliament  pronounce  upon  her  guilt,  and 
decree  her  shame  ?  And  shall  her  exculpation  be  hushed 
up  and  private  ?  I  court  publicity.  A  less  august  tribunal, 
but  one  whose  decisions  are  no  less  widely  circulated,  shall 
proclaim  her  innocence.  This  idea  alone  would  decide  my 
course,  if  I  could  so  far  unman  my  soul  as  to  forget  that 
vengeance  is  due.  Let  it  decide  yours,  if  so  much  milk  still 
mingle  with  your  blood  that  it  sicken  at  the  thought  of  jus- 
tice against  a  felon." 

Transported  by  rage.  Sir  Boyvill  soiight  for  words  bitter 
and  venomous  enough  to  convey  his  meaning;  and  Neville 
discerned  at  once  how  much  he  was  incensed  by  the  lan- 
guage used  with  regard  to  him  in  Falkner's  manuscript. 
Wounded  vanity  sought  to  ape  injured  feeUngs ;  in  such 
petty,  selfish  passions,  Gerard  could  take  no  share,  and  he 
observed  :  "  l\Ir.  Falkner  is  a  gentleman.  I  confess  that  liis 
narration  has  won  belief  from  me.  His  crime,  dressed  in 
20 


230  FALKNER. 

his  own  words,  is  frightful  enough ;  and  heavily,  if  it  be  left 
to  me,  shall  I  visit  it ;  but  the  plan  you  adopt  is  too  discord- 
ant with  the  habits  of  persons  of  our  rank  of  life,  for  me 
to  view  it  without  aversion.  There  is  another  which  I  pre- 
fer adopting." 

"  You  mean,"  replied  Sir  Boyvill,  "  that  you  would  chal- 
lenge him — risk  your  life  on  the  chance  of  taking  his.  Par- 
don me  ;  I  can  by  no  means  acquiesce  in  the  propriety  of 
such  an  act.  I  look  on  the  wrongs  he  has  done  us  as  de- 
priving him  of  the  right  to  be  treated  with  courtesy  ;  nor 
do  I  wish  him  to  add  the  death  of  my  only  son  to  the  list 
of  the  injuries  I  have  sustained." 

The  old  man  paused  :  his  lip  quivered — his  voice  dropped. 
Neville  fancied  that  tenderness  of  feeling  caused  these  indi- 
cations ;  he  was  deceived ;  his  father  continued  :  "  1  am 
endeavouring  so  far  to  command  myself  as  to  speak  with 
moderation.  It  is  difficult  to  find  words  to  express  impla- 
cable hatred,  so  let  that  go  by ;  and  let  us  talk,  since  you 
can,  and  believe  doubtless  that  I  ought,  calmly  and  reason- 
ably. You  would  challenge  this  villain,  this  gentleman,  as 
you  name  him.  You  would  put  your  life  on  a  par  with  his. 
He  murdered  your  mother,  and,  to  repay  me,  you  would  die 
by  the  same  hand. 

"  If  you  speak  the  truth — if  he  possess  a  spark  of  those 
feelings  which,  as  a  soldier,  you  have  a  right  to  believe 
may  animate  him,  do  you  think  that  he  would  return  your 
firel  He  raves  about  remorse  in  that  tissue  of  infamous 
falsehoods  which  you  put  into  my  hands ;  if  he  be  human, 
he  must  have  some  touch  of  that;  and  he  could  not,  if  he 
would,  raise  his  weapon  against  the  child  of  poor  Ahthea. 
He  will  therefore  refuse  to  meet  you,  or,  meeting  you,  re- 
fuse to  fire ;  and  either  it  will  end  in  a  farce  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  the  world,  or  you  will  shoot  a  defenceless  man.  I 
do  not  see  the  mercy  of  this  proceeding." 

"  Of  that,  sir,"  said  Neville,  "  we  must  take  our  chance." 

"  I  will  take  no  chance,"  cried  his  father.  "  My  unfortu- 
nate wife  was  borne  off  forcibly  from  her  home ;  you  can 
bear  witness  to  that.  Two  men  carried  her  away,  and  no 
tidings  ever  again  reached  us  of  her  fate.  And  now  one  of 
these  men,  the  arch  criminal,  chooses  to  gloss  over  these 
circumstances,  events,  as  pleases  him  ;  tells  his  own  story, 
giving  it  such  graces  of  style  as  may  dupe  the  inexperienced, 
and  we  are  to  rest  satisfied,  and  say.  It  is  so.  The  absurd- 
ity of  such  conduct  would  mark  us  as  madmen.  Enough  of 
this ;  I  have  reasoned  with  you  as  if  the  decision  lay  with 
me;  when,  in  fact,  I  have  no  voice  on  the  subject.  It  is 
out  of  my  hands  ;  I  have  made  it  over  to  the  law,  and  we 
can  but  stand  by  and  view  its  course.  I  believe,  and  before 
Heaven  and  your  country  you  must  assert  the  same,  that 
the  remains  we  have  uncovered  are  all  that  is  left  us  of  your 


FALKNER.  231 

lost  mother;  the  clandestine  burial  at  once  declares  the 
guilt  of  murder;  such  must  be  the  opinion  of  impartial 
judges,  if  I  mistake  not.  I  can  interfere  no  further.  The 
truth  will  be  sifted  by  three  juries;  this  is  no  hole-and-cor- 
ner vengeance ;  let  our  enemy  escape,  in  God's  name,  if 
they  acquit  him ;  but,  if  he  be  guilty,  then  let  him  die,  as  I 
believe  he  will,  a  felon's  death." 

Sir  Boyvill  looked  on  his  son  with  glassy  eyes,  but  a 
sneering  lip,  that  spoke  of  the  cruel  triumph  he  desired. 
"  There  is  Ravenglass,"  he  added,  "  there  the  coroner  is 
summoned — there  the  court  meets.  We  go  to  give  our 
deposition.  We  shall  not  lie,  nor  pervert  facts ;  we  tell 
who  it  was  revealed  to  us  your  mother's  unknown  grave  ; 
it  rests  with  them  to  decide  whether  he.  who  by  his  own 
avowal  placed  her  therein,  has  not  the  crime  of  murder  on 
his  soul." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

Sir  Boyvill  quickened  his  pace ;  Neville  followed.  He 
was  still  the  same  being  who  in  his  youth  had  been  driven 
to  the  verge  of  insanity  by  the  despotism  of  his  father. 
His  free  and  feeling  heart  revolted  from  arbitrary  com- 
mands and  selfishness.  It  was  not  only  that  his  thoughts 
flew  back,  wounded  and  sore,  to  Elizabeth,  and  figured  her 
agony,  but  he  detested  the  fierce  and  vulgar  revenge  of  his 
father.  It  is  true  that  he  had  seen  Falkner,  and  in  the  no- 
ble though  tarnished  grandeur  of  his  countenance  he  had 
read  the  truth  of  the  sad  tale  he  related ;  and  he  could  not 
treat  him  with  the  contempt  Sir  Boyvill  evinced;  to  whom 
he  was  an  image  of  the  mind — imseen,  unfelt.  And  then 
Falkner  had  loved  his  mother;  nay,  more,  she  as  a  sister 
had  loved  him ;  and  faulty  and  cruel  as  had  been  his  return 
for  her  kindness,  he,  through  her,  was  endued  with  sacred- 
ness  in  his  eyes. 

To  oppose  these  softening  feelings  came  a  sort  of  rage 
that  Elizabeth  was  his  child  ;  that  through  him  a  barrier 
was  raised  to  separate  him  from  the  chosen  friend  of  his 
heart,  the  one  sweet  angel  who  had  first  whispered  peace  to 
his  sonl.  The  struggle  was  violent— he  did  not  see  how  he 
could  refuse  his  evidence  at  the  inquest  already  summoned; 
in  every  way  his  motives  might  be  misunderstood,  and  his 
mother's  fame  might  suffer.  This  idea  became  the  victor 
— he  would  do  all  that  he  was  called  upon  to  do — to  excul- 
pate her ;  the  rest  he  must  leave  to  the  mysterious  guidance 
of  Providence, 


29(51  fALKNER. 

He  arrived  at  the  poverty-stricken  town  of  Ravenglass — •- 
the  legal  authorities  were  assembled — and  while  prelimina- 
ries were  being  arranged,  he  was  addressed  by  Sir  Boyvill's 
solicitor,  who  asked  him  to  relate  what  he  knew,  that  his 
legal  knowledge  might  assist  in  framing  his  evidence  brief- 
ly and  conclusively.  Neville  recounted  his  story  simply, 
confining  himself,  as  much  as  possible,  to  the  bare  outline 
of  the  facts.  The  man  of  law  was  evidently  struck  by  the 
new  turn  he  gave  to  the  tale ;  for  Sir  Boyvill  had  unhesita- 
tingly accused  Falkner  of  murder.  "  This  Falkner,"  he 
said,  "  had  concealed  himself  for  the  space  of  thirteen 
years,  till  his  accomplice  Osborne  was  discovered — and  till 
he  heard  of  Gerard's  perseverance  in  sifting  the  truth — then, 
fearful  the  tale  might  be  disclosed  in  America,  he  came  for- 
ward with  his  own  narrative,  which  glossed  over  the  chief 
crime,  and  yet,  by  revealing  the  burial-place  of  his  victim, 
at  once  demonstrated  the  truth  of  the  present  accusation. 
It  is  impossible  that  the  facts  could  have  occurred  as  he 
represents  them,  plausible  as  his  account  is.  Could  a  wo- 
man as  timid  as  Alithea  have  rushed  on  certain  death,  as 
he  describes'?  Why  should  she  have  crossed  the  stream  in 
its  fury  ]  A  bare  half  mile  would  have  carried  her  to  a 
cottage  where  she  had  been  safe  from  Falkner's  pursuit. 
What  lady  in  a  well-known  country,  where  every  face  she 
met  must  prove  a  friend,  but  would  not  have  betaken  her- 
self to  the  nearest  village,  instead  of  to  an  estuary  renown- 
ed for  danger.  The  very  wetting  her  feet  in  a  brook  had 
terrified  her — never  could  she  have  encountered  the  roar  of 
waves  sufficient  to  overwhelm  and  destroy  her." 

Such  were  the  observations  of  Sir  Boyvill ;  and  though 
Gerard,  by  his  simple  assertion  that  he  believed  Falkner's 
tale,  somewhat  staggered  the  solicitor,  yet  he  could  not 
banish  his  notion  that  a  trial  was  the  inevitable  and  best 
mode  of  bringing  the  truth  to  light.  The  jury  were  now 
met,  and  Sir  Boyvill  gave  such  a  turn  to  his  evidence  as  at 
once  impressed  them  unfavourably  towards  the  accused. 
In  melancholy  procession  tliey  visited  poor  Alithea's  grave. 
A  crowd  of  country  people  were  collected  about  it — they 
did  not  dare  touch  the  cloak,  but  gazed  on  it  with  curiosity 
and  grief.  Many  remembered  Mrs.  Neville,  and  their  rude 
exclamations  showed  how  deeply  they  felt  her  injuries. 
"  When  I  was  ill,"  said  an  old  woman,  "  she  gave  me  med- 
icine with  her  own  hand."  "  When  my  son  .lames  was  lost 
at  sea,"  said  another,  "  she  came  to  comfort  me,  and  brought 
young  Master  Gferard — and  cried,  bless  her !  When  she 
saw  me  take  on — rich  and  grand  as  she  was,  she  cried  for 
poor  .Tames— and  that  she  should  be  there  now  !"  "  My 
dear  mistress,"  cried  another,  "never  did  she  speak  a  harsh 
word  to  me — but  for  her,  I  could  not  have  married — if  she 
had  lived,  I  had  never  known  sorrow !" 


PALKNER.  238 

Execrations  against  the  murderer  followed  these  laments. 
The  arrival  of  the  jury  caused  a  universal  murmur — the 
crowd  was  driven  bacii — the  cloak  lifted  from  the  grave — 
the  men  looked  in ;  the  scull,  bound  by  her  long  hair — hair 
whose  colour  and  luxuriance  many  remembered — attracted 
peculiar  observation;  the  women,  as  they  saw  it,  wept 
aloud — fragments  of  her  dress  were  examined,  which  yet 
retained  a  sort  of  identity,  as  silk  or  muslin — though  stain- 
ed and  colourless.  As  farther  proof,  among  the  bones  were 
found  a  few  ornaments  —  among  them,  on  the  skeleton 
hand,  was  her  wedding-ring,  with  two  others  —  both  of 
which  were  sworn  to  by  Sir  Boyvill  as  belonging  to  his 
wife.  No  doubt  could  exist  concerning  the  identity  of  the 
remains  ;  it  was  sacrilege  to  gaze  on  them  a  moment  longer 
than  was  necessary — while  each  beholder,  as  they  contem- 
plated so  much  beauty  and  excellence  reduced  to  a  small 
heap  of  bones,  abhorrent  to  the  eye,  imbibed  a  heartfelt  les- 
son ou  the  nothingness  of  life.  Stout-hearted  men  wept — 
and  each  bosom  glowed  with  hatred  agaiust  her  destroyer. 

After  a  few  moments  the  cloak  was  again  extended — the 
crowd  pressed  nearer — the  jury  retired,  and  returned  to  Ra- 
venglass.  Neville's  evidence  was  only  necessary  to  prove 
the  name  and  residence  of  the  assassin — there  was  no  hes- 
itation about  the  verdict.  That  of  wilful  murder  against 
Falkner  was  unhesitatingly  pronounced — a  warrant  issued 
for  his  apprehensiou,  and  proper  officers  despatched  to  exe- 
cute it. 

The  moment  that  the  verdict  was  delivered.  Sir  Boyvill 
and  his  son  rode  back  to  Dromore.  Mr.  Ashley  and  the  so- 
licitor accompanied  them — and  all  the  ordinary  mechanism 
of  life,  which  intrudes  so  often  for  our  good,  so  to  justle  to- 
gether discordant  characters  and  wear  off  poignant  impres- 
sions, now  forced  Neville,  who  was  desirous  to  give  himself 
up  to  meditation,  to  abide  for  several  hours  in  the  society 
of  these  gentlemen.  There  was  a  dinner  to  be  eaten — Mr. 
Ashley  partook  of  it,  and  Gerard  felt  that  his  absence  would 
be  indecorous.  After  dinner  he  was  put  to  a  trial— more 
severe  to  a  sensitive,  imagiuative  mind  than  any  sharp 
strokes  of  commonplace  adversity.  He  was  minutely  ques- 
tioned as  to  the  extent  of  his  acquaintance  with  Falkner — 
how  he  came  to  form  it — how  often  he  had  seen  him — and 
what  had  drawn  confession  from  him  they  named  the  crim- 
inal. These  inquiries  had  been  easily  answered,  but  that 
the  name  of  Elizabeth  must  be  introduced — and,  as  he  ex- 
pected, at  the  mention  of  a  daughter,  a  world  of  inquiry 
followed — and  coarse  remarks  fell  from  his  father's  lips — 
which  harrowed  up  his  soul ;  while  he  felt  that  he  had  no 
exculpation  to  offer,  nor  any  explanation  that  might  take 
from  her  the  name  and  association  of  the  child  of  a  mur- 
derer. 


234  FALKNER. 

As  soon  as  he  could  he  burst  away.  He  rushed  into  the 
open  air,  and  hurried  to  the  spot  where  he  could  best  com- 
bat with  and  purify  the  rebellious  emotions  of  his  heart — 
none  but  the  men  placed  as  watch  were  near  his  mother's 
grave.  Seeing  the  young  squire,  they  retreated — and  he 
who  had  come  on  foot  at  such  quick  pace  that  he  scarcely 
felt  the  ground  he  trod,  threw  himself  on  the  sands,  grate- 
ful to  find  himself  alone  with  nature.  The  moon  was  hur- 
rying on  among  the  clouds — now  bright  in  the  clear  ether, 
now  darkened  by  heavy  masses — and  the  mirroring  ocean 
was  sometimes  alive  with  sparkling  silver,  now  veiled  and 
dim,  so  that  you  could  hear,  but  not  see,  the  breaking  of  the 
surge. 

An  eloquent  author  has  said,  in  contempt  of  such  a  being  : 
"Try  to  conceive  a  man  without  the  ideas  of  God  and  eter- 
nity ;  of  the  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful,  and  the  infinite." 
Neville  was  certainly  not  such.  There  was  poetry  in  his 
ver)'  essence  ;  and  enthusiasm  for  the  ideal  of  the  excellent 
gave  his  character  a  peculiar  charm,  to  any  one  equally  ex- 
alted and  refined.  His  mother's  decaymg  form  lay  beneath 
the  sands  on  which  he  was  stretched,  death  was  there  in 
its  most  hideous  form  ;  beamy,  and  even  form  had  deserted 
that  frame-work  which  once  was  tlie  dear  being,  whose  ca- 
resses, so  warm  and  fond,  it  yet  often  thrilled  him  to  re- 
member. He  had  demanded  from  Heaven  the  revelation 
of  his  mother's  fate,  here  he  found  it,  here  in  the  narrow 
grave  lay  the  evidence  of  her  virtues  a)id  her  death  ;  did 
he  thank  Heaven  ?  even  while  he  did,  he  felt  with  bitter- 
ness that  the  granting  of  his  prayer  was  inextricably  linked 
with  the  ruin  of  a  being,  as  good  and  fair  as  she  whose 
honour  he  had  so  earnestly  desired  to  vindicate. 

He  thought  of  all  the  sordid,  vulgar,  but  heart-thrilling 
misery  which  by  his  means  was  brought  on  Elizabeth  ;  and 
he  sought  his  heart  for  excuses  for  the  success  for  which 
he  had  pined.  They  came  ready;  no  desire  of  vulgar  ven- 
geance had  been  his;  his  motives  had  been  exalted,  his  con- 
duct straightforward.  The  divine  stamp  on  woman  is  her 
maternal  character — it  was  to  prove  that  his  idolized  mother 
had  not  deserted  the  first  and  most  sacred  duty  in  the 
world  that  had  urged  him — and  he  could  not  foresee  that 
the  innocent  would  suffer  through  his  inquiries.  The  crime 
must  fall  on  its  first  promoter — on  Falkner's  head  must  be 
heaped  the  consequences  of  his  act ;  all  else  were  guiltless. 
These  reflections,  however,  only  served  to  cheat  his  wound 
of  its  pain  for  a  time — again  other  thoughts  recurred,  the 
realities,  the  squalid  realities  of  the  scene,  in  which  she, 
miserable,  was  about  to  take  a  part.  The  thief-takers  and 
the  gyves — the  prison,  and  the  public  ignominious  trial — 
Falkner  was  to  be  subjected  to  all  these  indignities,  and  he 
well  knew  that  his  daughter  would  not  leave  his  side. 


FALKNER.  S3S 

**  And  I,  her  son,  the  offspring  of  these  sainted  bones — 
placed  here  by  him — how  can  I  draw  near  his  child !  God 
have  mercy  on  her,  for  man  will  have  none !" 

Still  he  could  not  be  satisfied.  "  Surely,"  he  thought, 
"something  can  be  done,  and  something  I  will  do.  Already 
men  are  gone,  who  are  to  tear  him  from  his  home,  and  to 
deliver  him  up  to  all  those  vile  contrivances  devised  for 
the  coercion  of  the  lowest  of  mankind — she  will  accompany 
him,  while  I  must  remain  here.  To-morrow  these  re- 
mains will  be  conveyed  to  our  house — on  the  following  day 
they  are  to  be  interred  in  the  family  vault,  and  I  must  be 
present — I  am  tied,  forced  to  inaction — the  privilege  of  free 
action  taken  from  me." 

Hope  was  awakened,  however,  as  he  pursued  these 
thoughts,  and  recollected  the  generous,  kindly  disposition 
of  Lady  Cecil,  and  her  attachment  to  her  young  friend. 
He  determined  to  write  to  her.  He  felt  assured  that  she 
would  do  all  in  her  power  to  alleviate  Elizabeth's  sufferings 
— what  she  could  do,  he  did  not  well  understand — but  it 
was  a  relief  to  him  to  take  some  step  for  the  benefit  of  the 
devoted  daughter.  Bitterly  as  he  thought  of  these  things, 
did  he  regret  that  he  had  ever  seen  Elizabeth'?  So  com- 
phcated  was  the  web  of  event,  that  he  knew  not  how  to 
wish  any  event  to  have  occurred  differently ;  except  that 
he  had  not  trusted  to  the  hollow  pretences  of  his  father. 
He  saw  at  once  how  the  generous  and  petty-minded  .^an 
never  coalesce — he  ought  to  have  acted  for  himself,  by  him- 
self;  and  miserable  as  in  any  case  the  end  must  have  been, 
he  felt  that  his  own  open,  honourable  revenge  would  have 
been  less  cruel  in  its  effects  than  the  malicious  pursuit  of 
his  vindictive  father. 


CHAPTER  XXXVn. 

There  is  an  impatient  spirit  in  the  young,  that  will  not 
suffer  them  to  take  into  consideration  the  pauses  that  occur 
between  events.  That  which  they  do  not  see  move,  they 
beUeve  to  be  stationary.  Falkner  was  surprised  by  the 
silence  of  several  days  on  the  part  of  Neville ;  but  he  did 
not  the  less  expect  and  prepare  for  the  time,  when  he 
should  be  called  upon  to  render  an  account  for  the  Avrong 
he  had  done.  EUzabeth,  on  the  contrary,  deemed  that  the 
scene  was  closed,  the  curtain  fallen.  What  more  could 
arise'?  Neville  had  obtained  assurance  of  the  innocence 
and  miserable  end  of  his  mother.  In  some  manner  this 
would  be  declared  to  the  world ;  but  the  echo  of  such  a 


236  PALKNER. 

voice  would  not  penetrate  the  solitude  in  which  she  and  her 
guardian  were  hereafter  to  live.  Silence  and  exclusion 
v^ere  the  signal  aii(J  seal  of  discovered  guilt — other  punish- 
ment she  did  not  expect.  The  name  of  Falkner  had  be- 
come abhorrent  to  all  who  bore  any  relationship  to  the  in- 
jured AliUiea.  She  had  bid  an  eternal  adieu  to  the  domes- 
tic circle  at  Oakly — to  the  kind  and  frank-hearted  Lady 
Cecil— and,  with  her,  to  Gerard.  His  mind,  fraught  with  a 
thousand  virtues — his  heart,  whose  sensibility  had  awoke 
her  tenderness,  were  shut  irrevocably  against  her. 

Did  she  love  Gerard  ]  This  question  never  entered  her  own 
mind.  She  felt,  but  did  not  reason  on,  her  emotions.  Eliza- 
beth was  formed  to  be  alive  to  the  better  part  of  love.  Her 
enthusiasm  gave  ideality,  her  atfectionate  disposition  warmth, 
to  all  her  feelings.  She  loved  Falkner,  and  that  with  so 
much  truth  and  delicacy,  yet  fervour  of  passion,  that  scarcely 
could  her  virgin  heart  conceive  a  power  more  absolute,  a  tie 
more  endearmg,  than  the  gratitude  she  had  vowed  to  him  ; 
yet  she  intimately  felt  the  diflerence  that  existed  between 
her  deep-rooted  attachment  for  him  she  named  and  looked 
on  as  her  father,  and  the  spnng  of  playful,  happy,  absorbing 
emotions  that  animated  her  intercourse  with  Neville.  To 
the  one  she  dedicated  her  life  and  services;  she  watched 
him  as  a  mother  may  a  child ;  a  smile  or  cheerful  tone  of 
voice  was  warmth  and  gladness  to  her  anxious  bosom,  and 
she  wept  over  his  misfortunes  with  the  truest  grief. 

But  there  was  more  of  the  genuine  attachment  of  mind 
for  mind  in  her  sentiment  for  Neville.  Falkner  was  gloomy 
and  self-absorbed.  Elizabeth  might  grieve  for,  but  she 
found  it  impossible  to  comfort  him.  With  Gerard  it  was 
far  otherwise.  Elizabeth  had  opened  in  his  soul  an  un- 
known spring  of  sympathy,  to  relieve  the  melancholy  which 
had  hitherto  overwhelmed  him.  With  her  he  gave  way 
freely  to  the  impulses  of  a  heart  which  longed  to  mingle 
its  hitherto  checked  stream  of  feeling  with  other  and  sweeter 
waters.  In  every  way  he  excited  her  admiration  as  well 
as  kindness.  The  poetry  of  his  nature  suggested  expres- 
sions and  ideas  at  once  varied  and  fascinating.  He  led 
her  to  new  and  delightful  studies,  by  unfolding  to  her  the 
pages  of  the  poets  of  her  native  country,  with  which  she 
was  little  conversant.  Except  Shakspeare  and  Milton,  she 
knew  noihing  of  English  poetry.  The  volumes  of  Chaucer 
and  Spenser,  of  ancient  date;  of  Pope,  Gray,  and  Burns; 
and,  in  addition,  the  writings  of  a  younger,  but  divine  race 
of  poets,  were  all  opened  to  her  by  him.  In  music,  also, 
he  became  her  teacher.  She  was  a  fine  musician  of  the 
German  school.  He  introduced  her  to  the  simpler  graces 
of  song ;  and  brought  her  the  melodies  of  Moore,  so  "  mar- 
ried to  immortal  verse,"  that  they  can  only  be  thought  of 
conjointly.    Oh,  the  happy  days  of  Oakly !    How  liad  each 


FALKNER.  29T 

succeeding  hour  been  gilded  by  the  pleasures  of  a  nascent 
passion,  of  the  existence  of  which  she  had  never  before 
dreamed — and  these  were  fled  for  ever !  It  was  impossible 
to  feel  assured  of  so  sad  a  truth,  and  not  to  weep  over  the 
miserable  blight.  Elizabeth  commanded  herself  to  appear 
cheerful,  but  sadness  crept  over  her  solitary  hours.  She 
felt  that  the  world  had  grown,  from  being  a  copy  of  para- 
dise, into  a  land^of  labour  and  disappointment;  where  self- 
approbation  was  to  be  gained  through  self-sacrifice ;  and 
duty  and  happiness  became  separate,  instead  of  united  ob- 
jects at  which  to  aim. 

From  such  thoughts  she  took  refuge  in  the  society  of 
Falkner.  She  loved  him  so  truly,  that  she  forgot  her  per- 
sonal regrets — she  forgot  even  Neville  when  with  him.  Her 
affection  for  her  benefactor  was  not  a  stagnant  pool,  mantled 
over  by  memories  existing  in  the  depths  of  her  soul,  but 
giving  no  outward  sign ;  it  was  a  fresh  spring  of  everflow- 
ing  love — it  was  redundant  with  all  the  better  portion  of  our 
nature — gratitude,  admiration,  and  pity  for  ever  fed  it,  as 
from  a  perennial  fountain. 

It  was  on  a  day,  the  fifth  after  the  disclosure  of  Falkner, 
that  she  had  been  taking  her  accustomed  ride,  and,  as  she 
rode,  given  herself  up  to  those  reveries — now  enthusiastic, 
now  drooping  and  mournful — that  sprung  from  her  singular 
and  painful  position.  She  returned  home,  eager  to  forget  in 
Falkner's  society  many  a  rebel  thought,  and  to  drive  away 
the  image  of  her  younger  friend,  by  gazing  on  the  wasted, 
sinking  form  of  her  benefactor,  in  whose  singulai«ly  noble 
countenance  she  ever  found  new  cause  to  devote  her  for- 
tunes and  her  heart.  To  say  that  he  was  "  not  less  than 
archangel  ruined,"  is  not  to  express  the  peculiar  interest  of 
Falkner's  appearance.  Thus  had  he  seemed,  perhaps,  thir- 
teen years  before  at  Treby;  but  gentle  and  kindly  senti- 
ments, the  softening  intercourse  of  Elizabeth,  the  improve- 
ment of  his  intellect,  and  the  command  he  had  exercised 
over  the  denwnstration  of  passion,  had  moulded  his  face 
into  an  expression  of  benevolence  and  sweetness,  joined  to 
melancholy  thoughtfulness ;  an  abstracted,  but  not  sul- 
len seriousness,  that  rendered  it  interesting  to  every  be- 
holder. Since  his  confession  to  Neville,  since  the  die  was 
cast,  and  he  had  delivered  himself  up  to  his  fate  to  atone 
for  his  victim,  something  more  was  added;  exalted  resolu- 
tion and  serene  lofty  composure  had  replaced  his  usual 
sadness  ;  and  the  passions  of  his  soul,  which  had  before  de- 
formed his  handsome  lineaments,  now  animated  them  with 
a  beauty  of  mind  which  struck  Elizabeth  at  once  with  ten- 
derness and  admiration. 

Now,  longing  to  behold,  to  contemplate  this  dear  face, 
and  to  listen  to  a  voice  that  always  charmed  her  out  of 
herself,  and  made  her  forget  her  sorrows — she  w^  disap* 


238  FALKNER. 

pointed  to  find  his  usual  sitting-room  empty— it  appeared 
even  as  if  the  furniture  had  been  thrown  into  disorder ;  there 
were  marks  of  several  dirty  feet  upon  the  carpet ;  on  the 
half-written  letter  that  lay  on  the  desk  the  pen  had  hastily 
been  thrown,  blotting  it.  Elizabeth  wondered  a  little,  but 
the  emotion  was  passing  away,  when  the  head  servant 
came  into  the  room,  and  informed  her  that  his  master  had 
gone  out,  and  would  not  return  that  night. 

"  Not  to-night !"   exclaimed   Elizabeth  ;  '"'  what  has  hap- 
pened 1  who  have  been  here  1" 
"  Two  men,  miss." 
"  Men !  gentlemen  V 
"  No,  miss,  not  gentlemen." 
"  And  my  father  went  away  with  them  V 
"Yes,  miss,"  replied  the  man,  "he  did  indeed.     He  would 
not  take  the  carriage  ;  he  went  in  a  hired  post-chaise.     He 
ordered  me  to  tell  you,  miss,  that  he  would  write  directly, 
and  let  you  know  when  you  might  expect  him." 

"  Strange,  very  strange  is  this  !"  thought  Elizabeth.  She 
did  not  know  why  she  should  be  disturbed,  but  disquiet  in- 
vaded her  mind  ;  she  felt  abandoned  and  forlorn,  and,  as  the 
shades  of  evening  gathered  round,  even  desolate.  She 
walked  from  room  to  room,  she  looked  from  the  window,  the 
air  was  chill,  and  from  the  east,  yet  she  repaired  to  the  gar- 
den ;  she  felt  restless  and  miserable ;  what  could  the  event 
be  that  took  Falkneraway!  .She  pondered  vainly.  The 
most  probable  conjecture  was,  that  he  obeyed  some  sum- 
mons from  her  own  relations.  At  length  one  idea  rushed 
into  her  mind,  and  she  returned  to  the  house,  and  rang  for 
the  servant.  Falkner's  wandering  life  had  prevented  his 
having  any  servant  of  long-tried  fidelity  about  him — but  this 
man  was  good-hearted  and  respectable — he  felt  for  his 
young  mistress,  and  consulted  Avith  her  maid  as  to  the 
course  they  should  take  under  the  present  painful  circum- 
stances ;  and  had  concluded  that  they  should  preserve  si- 
lence as  to  what  had  occurred,  leaving  her  to  learn  it  from 
their  master's  expected  letter.  Yet  the  secret  was  in  some 
danger,  when,  fixing  her  eyes  on  him,  Elizabeth  said,  "  Tell 
me  truly,  have  you  no  guess  what  this  business  is  that  has 
taken  your  master  away  !" 

The  man  looked  confused ;  but,  like  many  persons  not 
practised  in  the  art  of  cross-questioning,  Elizabeth  balked 
herself,  by  adding  another  inquiry  before  the  first  was  an- 
swered ;  saying  with  a  faltering  voice,  "  Are  you  sure, 
Thompson,  that  it  was  not  a  challenge — a  duel  ?" 

The  domestic's  face  cleared  up:  "Quite  certain,  miss,  it 
was  no  duel — it  could  not  be — the  men  were  not  gentle- 
men." 

"Then,"  thought  Elizabeth,  as  she  dismissed  the  man,  "I 
will  no  longer  torment  myself.    It  is  evidently  some  affair 


FALKNER.  239 

of  mere  business  that  has  called  him  away.     I  shall  learn 
all  to-morrow." 

Yet  the  morrow  and  the  next  day  came,  and  Falkner 
neither  wrote  nor  returned.  Like  all  persons  who  deter- 
mine to  conjecture  no  more,  Elizabeth's  whole  time  was 
spent  in  endeavouring  to  divine  the  cause  of  his  prolonged 
absence  and  strange  silence.  Had  any  comnnmication  from 
Neville  occasioned  his  departure  I  was  he  sent  for  to  point  out 
his  victim's  grave  ?  That  idea  carried  some  probability  with 
it;  and  Elizabeth's  thoughts  flew  fast  to  picture  the  solitary 
shore,  and  the  sad  receptacle  of  beauty  and  love.  Would 
Falkner  and  Neville  meet  at  such  an  hour?  without  a  clew 
to  guide  her,  she  wandered  for  ever  in  a  maze  of  thought, 
and  each  hour  added  to  her  disquietude.  She  had  not  gone 
beyond  the  garden  for  several  days,  she  was  fearful  of  being 
absent  when  anything  might  arise  ;  but  nothing  occurred, 
and  the  mystery  became  more  tantalizing  and  profound. 

On  the  third  day  she  could  endure  the  suspense  no  longer; 
she  ordered  horses  to  be  put  to  the  carriage,  and  told  the 
servant  of  her  intention  to  drive  into  town,  and  to  call  on 
Falkner's  solicitor,  to  learn  if  he  had  any  tidings;  that  he 
was  ill  she  felt  assured — where  and  how  ]  away  from  her, 
perhaps  deserted  by  all  the  world  :  the  idea  of  his  sick-bed 
became  intolerably  painful ;  she  blamed  herself  for  her 
inaction;  she  resolved  not  to  rest  till  she  saw  her  father 
again. 

Thompson  knew  not  what  to  say ;  he  hesitated,  begged 
her  not  to  go  ;  the  truth  hovered  on  his  lips,  yet  he  feared 
to  give  it  utterance.  Elizabeth  saw  his  confusion ;  it  gave 
birth  to  a  thousand  fears,  and  she  exclaimed,  "  What  fright- 
ful event  are  you  concealing  1  Tell  me  at  once.  Great 
God  !  why  this  silence  1     Is  my  father  dead  V' 

"  No,  indeed,  miss,"  said  the  man,  "but  my  master  is  not 
in  London,  he  is  a  long  way  off.  I  heard  he  was  taken  to 
Carlisle." 

"  Taken  to  Carlisle  !    Why  taken  ?     What  do  you  mean  V 

"There  was  a  charge  against  him,  miss,"  Thompson 
continued,  hesitating  at  every  word,  "  the  men  who  came — 
they  apprehended  him  for  murder." 

"Murder!"  echoed  his  auditress;  "  then  they  fought !  Ge- 
rard is  killed !" 

The  agony  of  her  look  made  Thompson  more  explicit. 
"  It  was  no  duel,"  he  said,  '"  it  was  done  many  years  ago ; 
it  was  a  lady  who  was  murdered,  a  Mrs.  or  Lady  Neville." 

Elizabeth  smiled — a  painful,  yet  a  genuine  smile;  so  glad 
was  she  to  have  her  worst  fears  removed,  so  futile  did  the 
accusation  appear;  the  smile  passed  away,  as  she  thought 
of  the  ignominy,  the  disgraceful  realities  of  such  a  process 
— of  Falkner  torn  from  his  home,  imprisoned,  a  mark  for  in- 
famy.   Weak  minds  are  stumied  by  a  blow  like  this,  while 


840  FALKNER. 

the  stronger  rise  to  the  level  of  the  exigency,  and  grow 
calm  from  the  very  call  made  upon  their  courage.  Eliza- 
beth might  weep  to  remember  past  or  anticipated  misfor- 
tunes, but  she  was  always  calm  when  called  upon  to  decide 
and  act ;  her  form  seemed  to  dilate,  her  eyes  flashed  with  a 
living  fire,  her  whole  countenance  beamed  with  lofty  and 
proud  confidence  in  herself.  "  Why  did  you  not  tell  me 
tliis  before ■?"  she  exclaimed.  "What  madness  possessed 
you  to  keep  me  in  ignorance  !  How  much  time  has  been 
lost !  Order  the  horses  !  I  must  begone  at  once,  and  join 
my  father." 

"  He  is  in  jail,  miss,"  said  Thompson.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  but  you  liad  better  see  some  friend  before  you  go." 

"  I  must  decide  upon  that,"  repUed  Elizabeth.  "  Let 
there  be  no  delay  on  your  part,  you  have  caused  too  much. 
But  the  bell  rings ;  did  1  not  hear  wheels  ?  perhaps  he  is  re- 
turned." She  rushea  to  the  outer  door;  she  believed  that 
it  was  her  father  returned ;  the  garden  gate  opened — two 
ladies  entered ;  one  was  Lady  Cecil.  In  a  moment  Eliza- 
beth felt  herself  embraced  by  her  warm-hearted  friend;  she 
burst  into  tears.  "This  is  kind,  more  than  kind!"  she  ex- 
claimed ;  "  and  you  bring  good  news,  do  you  not  i  My  fa- 
ther is  liberated,  and  all  is  again  well!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVHL 

The  family  of  Raby  must  be  considered  collectively,  as 
each  member  united  in  one  feeling,  and  acted  on  one  prin- 
ciple. They  were  Catholics,  and  never  forgot  it.  They 
were  not  bent  on  proselytism ;  on  the  contrary,  they 
rather  shunned  admitting  strangers  into  their  circle :  but 
they  never  ceased  to  remember  that  they  belonged  to  the 
ancient  faith  of  the  land,  and  looked  upon  their  fidelity  to 
the  tenets  of  their  ancestors  as  a  privilege,  and  a  distinc- 
tion far  more  honourable  than  a  patent  of  nobility.  Sur- 
rounded by  Protestants,  and  consequently,  as  they  believed, 
by  enemies,  it  was  the  aim  of  their  existence  to  keep  their 
honour  unsullied ;  and  that  each  member  of  the  family 
should  act  for  the  good  and  glory  of  the  whole,  unmindful 
of  private  interests  and  individual  aflections.  The  result 
of  such  a  system  may  be  divined.  The  pleasures  of  medi- 
ocrity— toiling  naerit — the  happy  home — the  clieerful  family 
union,  where  smiles  glitter  brighter  than  gold ;  all  these 
were  unknown  or  despised.  Young  hearts  were  pitilessly 
crushed ;  young  hopes  blighted  without  remorse.  The 
daughters  were  doomed,  for  the  most  part,  to  the  cloister ; 


FALKNER.  241 

the  sons  to  foreign  service.  This,  indeed,  was  not  to  be 
attributed  entirely  to  the  family  failing — a  few  years  ago, 
Knglish  Catholics  were  barred  out  from  every  road  to  emol- 
ument and  distinction  in  their  native  country. 

Edwin  Raby  had  thus  been  sacrificed.  His  enlightened 
mind  disdained  the  tranunels  thrown  over  it ;  but  his  apos- 
tacy  doomed  him  to  become  an  outcast.  He  had  previous- 
ly been  the  favourite  and  hope  of  his  parents ;  from  the 
moment  that  he  renounced  his  religion  he  became  the  op- 
probrium. His  name  was  never  mentioned ;  and  his  death 
hailed  as  a  piece  of  good  fortune,  that  freed  his  family  from 
a  living  disgrace.  The  only  person  among  them  who  re- 
gretted him  was  the  wife  of  his  eldest  brother ;  she  had 
appreciated  his  talents  and  virtues,  and  had  entertained  a 
sincere  friendship  for  him;  but  even  she  renounced  him. 
Her  heart,  naturally  warm  and  noble,  was  narrowed  by  pre- 
judice ;  but  while  she  acted  in  conformity  with  the  family 
principle,  she  suffered  severely  from  the  shock  thus  given 
to  her  better  feelings.  When  Edwin  died,  her  eyes  were 
a  little  opened ;  she  began  to  suspect  that  human  life  and 
human  suffering  deserved  more  regard  than  articles  of  be- 
lief The  "late  remorse  of  love"  was  awakened,  and  she 
never  wholly  forgot  the  impression.  She  had  not  been 
consulted  concerning,  she  new  nothing  of,  his  widow  and 
orphan  child.  Young  at  that  time,  the  weight  of  authority 
pressed  also  on  her,  and  she  had  been  bred  to  submission. 
There  was  a  latent  energy,  however,  in  her  character  that 
developed  itself  as  she  grew  older.  Her  husband  died,  and 
her  consequence  increased  in  old  Oswi  Raby's  eyes.  By 
degrees  her  authority  became  paramount ;  it  was  greatly 
regulated  by  the  prejudices  and  systems  cherished  by  the 
family,  as  far  as  regarded  the  world  in  general ;  but  it  was 
softened  in  her  own  circle  by  the  influence  of  the  affec- 
tions. Her  daughters  were  educated  at  home — not  one 
was  destined  for  the  cloister.  Her  only  son  was  brought 
up  at  Eton ;  the  privileges  granted  of  late  years  to  the 
Cathohcs  made  her  entertain  the  belief,  that  it  was  no  longer 
necessary  to  preserve  the  old  defences  and  fortificntions 
which  intolerance  had  forced  its  victims  to  institute ;  still 
pride — pride  of  rehgion,  pride  of  family,  pride  in  an  unblem- 
ished name,  were  too  deeply  rooted,  too  carefully  nurtured, 
not  to  form  an  integral  part  of  her  character. 

When  a  letter  from  her  fatlier-in-law  revealed  to  her  the 
existence  of  Ehzabeth,  her  heart  warmed  towards  the  or- 
phan and  deserted  daughter  of  Edwin.  She  felt  all  the  re- 
pentance which  duties  neglected  bring  on  a  well-regulated 
mind — her  pride  revolted  at  the  idea  that  a  daughter  of  the 
nouse  of  Raby  was  dependant  on  the  beneficence  of  a 
stranger — she  resolved  that  no  time  should  be  lost  in  claim- 
ing and  receiving  her,  even  while  she  trejaabled  to  ttiiuk  of 
21  L 


242  FALKNER. 

how,  brought  up  as  an  alien,  she  might  prove  rather  a 
burden  than  an  acquisition.  She  liad  written  to  make  in- 
quiries  as  to  her  niece's  abode.  She  heard  that  she  was  on 
a  visit  at  Lady  Cecil's  at  Hastings — iMrs.  Raby  was  at 
Tunbridge — she  instantly  ordered  horses,  and  proceeded  to 
Oakly. 

On  the  morning  of  her  visit,  Lady  Cecil  had  received  a 
letter  from  Gerard :  it  was  incoherent,  and  had  been  written 
by  snatches  in  the  carriage  on  his  way  to  Dromore.  Its 
first  words  proclaimed  his  mother's  innocence,  and  the  ac- 
knowledgment of  her  wrongs  by  Sir  Boyvill  himself.  As 
he  went  on,  his  pen  lingered — he  trembled  to  write  the 
words,  "  Our  friend,  our  Elizabeth,  is  the  daughter  of  the 
destroyer."  It  was  unnatural,  it  was  impossible — the  very 
thought  added  acrimony  to  his  detestation  of  Falkner — it 
prevented  the  compassion  iiis  generous  nature  would  other- 
wise have  afforded,  and  yet  roused  every  wish  to  spare 
him,  as  much  as  he  might  be  spared,  for  his  heroic  daugh- 
ter's sake.  He  felt  deceived,  trepanned,  doomed.  In  after- 
life we  are  wiHing  to  compromise  with  fate — to  take  the 
good  with  the  bad — and  are  satisfied  if  we  can  at  all  lighten 
the  burden  of  life.  In  youth  we  aim  at  completeness  and 
perfection.  Ardent  and  single-minded,  Neville  disdained 
prejudices ;  and  his  impulse  was,  to  separLitc  the  idea  of 
father  and  daughter,  and  to  cherish  Elizabeth  as  a  being  to- 
tally distinct  from  her  parentage.  But  she  would  not  yield 
to  this  delusion — she  would  cling  to  her  father — and  if  he 
died  by  his  hand,  he  would  for  ever  become  an  object  of  de- 
testation. Well  has  Alfieri  said,  "  There  is  no  struggle  so 
vehement  as  when  an  upright  but  passionate  heart  is  divided 
between  inclination  and  duty."  Neville's  soul  was  set  upon 
honour  and  well-doing ;  never  before  had  he  found  the  exe- 
cution of  the  dictates  of  his  conscience  so  full  of  bitterness 
and  impatience.  Something  of  these  feelings  betrayed 
themselves  in  his  letter.  "  We  have  lost  Ehzabeth,"  he 
wrote  ;  "for  ever  lost  her!  Is  there  no  help  for  this  ?  No 
help  for  her  ?  None  !  She  clings  to  the  destroyer's  side, 
and  shares  his  miserable  fate — lost  to  happiness — to  the  in- 
nocence and  sunshine  of  life.  She  will  live  a  victim  and 
die  a  martyr  to  her  duties ;  and  she  is  lost  to  us  for  ever !" 

Lady  Cecil  read  again  and  again — she  wondered — she 
grieved — she  uttered  impatient  reproaches  against  Gerard  for 
having  sought  the  truth ;  and  yet  her  heart  was  with  him, 
and  she  rejoiced  in  the  acknowledged  innocence  of  Alithea. 
She  thought  of  Elizabeth  with  the  deepest  grief — had  they 
never  met — had  she  and  Gerard  never  seen  each  other, 
neither  had  loved,  and  half  this  wo  had  been  spared.  How 
strange  and  devious  are  the  ways  of  fate — how  difficult 
to  resign  one's  self  to  its  mysterious  and  destructive  course! 
Naturally  serene,  though  vivacious — kind-hearted,  but  not 


FALKNER.  243 

informed  with  trembling  insensibility — yet  so  struck  was 
Lady  Cecil  by  the  prospects  of  misery  for  those  she  best 
loved,  that  she  wept  bitterly,  and  wrung  her  hands  in  im- 
patient, impotent  despair.  At  this  moment  Mrs.  Raby  was 
announced. 

Mrs.  Raby  had  something  of  the  tragedy  queen  in  her  ap- 
pearance. She  was  tall  and  dignified  in  person.  Her 
black  full  eyes  were  melancholy — her  brow  shadowing  them 
over  had  a  world  of  thought  and  feeling  in  its  sculpture-like 
lines.  The  lower  part  of  her  face  harmonized,  though 
something  of  pride  lurked  about  her  beautiful  mouth — her 
voice  was  melodious,  but  deep-toned.  Her  manners  had 
not  the  ease  of  the  well-bred  Lady  Cecil — something  of 
the  outcast  was  imprinted  upon  them,  which  imparted  con- 
sciousness, reserve,  and  alternate  timidity  and  haughtiness. 
There  was  nothing  embarrassed,  however,  in  her  mien, 
and  she  asked  at  once  for  Elizabeth  with  obvious  impa- 
tience. She  heard  that  she  was  gone  with  regret.  The 
praises  Lady  Cecil  almost  involuntarily  showered  on  her  latfe 
guest  at  once  dissipated  this  feeling;  and  caused  her,  with 
all  the  frankness  natural  to  her,  to  unfold  at  once  the  object 
of  her  visit — the  parentage  of  the  orphan — the  discovery  of 
her  niece.  Lady  Cecil  clasped  her  hands  in  a  transport, 
which  was  not  all  joy.  There  was  so  much  of  wonder, 
almost  of  disbelief,  at  the  strange  tale — had  a  fairy's  wand 
operated  the  change,  it  had  not  been  more  magical  in  her 
eyes.  Heaven's  ways  were  vindicated — all  of  evil  vanished 
from  the  scene — her  friend  snatched  from  ignominy  and 
crime,  to  be  shrined  for  ever  in  their  hearts  and  love. 

She  poured  out  these  feelings  impetuously.  Mrs.  Raby 
was  well  acquainted  with  Alithea's  story,  and  was  familiar 
with  Gerard  Neville's  conduct ;  all  that  she  now  heard  was 
strange  indeed.  She  did  not  imbibe  any  of  Lady  Cecil's 
gladness,  but  much  of  her  eagerness.  It  became  of  para- 
mount importance  in  her  mind  to  break  at  once  the  link  be- 
tween Elizabeth  and  her  guardian,  before  the  story  gained 
pubhcity,  and  the  name  of  Raby  became  mingled  in  a  tale 
of  horror  and  crime,  which,  to  the  peculiar  tone  of  Mrs. 
Raby's  mind,  was  singularly  odious  and  disgraceful.  No 
time  must  be  lost — Elizabeth  must  be  claimed — must  at 
once  leave  the  guilty  and  tainted  one,  while  yet  her  name 
received  no  infection  ;  or  she  would  be  disowned  for  ever 
by  her  father's  family.  When  Lady  Cecil  learned  Mrs.  Ra- 
by's intention  of  proceeding  to  London  to  see  her  niece, 
she  resolved  to  go  also,  to  act  as  mediator,  and  to  soften 
the  style  of  the  demands  made,  even  while  she  persuaded 
Elizabeth  to  submit  to  them.  She  expressed  her  intention, 
and  the  ladies  agreed  to  travel  together.  Both  were  de- 
sirous of  further  communication.  Lady  Cecil  wished  to  in- 
terest Mrs,  Raby  still' more  deeply  in  heajpatchless  kins- 
V  8 


244  FALKNER. 

woman's  splendid  qualities  of  heart  and  mind ;  while  Mrs. 
Raby  felt  that  her  conduct  must  be  founded  on  the  character 
and  worth  of  her  niece  ;  even  while  she  was  more  con- 
vinced, at  every  minute,  that  no  half  measures  would  be 
permitted  by  Oswi  Raby,  and  others  of  their  family  and 
connexion,  and  that  Elizabeth's  welfare  depended  on  her 
breaking  away  entirely  from  her  present  position,  and 
throwing  herself  unreservedly  upon  the  kindness  and  affec- 
tion of  her  father's  relations. 

Strange  tidings  awaited  their  arrival  in  London,  and  added 
to  the  eagerness  of  both.  The  proceedings  of  Sir  Boyvill, 
the  accusation  of  Faikner,  and  his  actual  arrest,  with  ail  its 
consequent  disgrace,  made  each  fear  that  it  was  too  late  to 
interpose.  Mrs.  Raby  showed  most  energy.  Tlie  circum- 
stances were  already  in  the  newspapers,  but  there  was  no 
mention  of  EUzabeth.  Faikner  had  been  taken  from  his 
home,  but  no  daughter  accompanied  him,  no  daughter  ap- 
peared to  have  any  part  in  tlie  sliocking  scene.  Had  Faik- 
ner had  the  generosity  to  save  her  from  disgrace  ?  If  so,  it 
became  her  duty  to  co-operate  in  his  measures.  Where 
Elizabeth  had  taken  refuge,  was  uncertain  ;  but,  on  inquiry, 
it  seemed  that  she  was  still  at  Wimbledon.  Thither  the 
ladies  proceeded  together.  Anxiety  possessed  both  to  a 
painful  degree.  There  was  a  mysteriousness  in  the  prog- 
ress of  events  which  they  could  not  unveil — all  depended 
on  a  clear  and  a  happy  explanation.  The  first  words  and 
first  embrace  of  Elizabeth  reassured  her  friend ;  all  indeed 
would  be  well,  she  restored  to  her  place  in  society,  and  pim- 
ishment  would  fall  on  the  guilty  alone. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

The  first  words  that  Elizabeth  spoke,  as  she  embraced 
Lady  Cecil,  "  You  are  come,  then  all  is  well,"  seemed  to 
confirm  her  belief  that  the  offered  protection  of  Mrs.  Raby 
would  sound  to  the  poor  orphan  as  a  hospitable  shore  to  the 
wrecked  mariner.  She  pressed  her  fondly  to  her  heart,  re- 
peating her  own  words,  "  All  is  well — dear,  dear  Elizabeth, 
you  are  restored  to  us,  after  I  believed  you  lost  for  ever." 

"What,  then,  has  happened!"  asked  Ehzabelh,  "and 
where  is  my  dear  father  ?" 

"  Your  father !  Miss  Raby,"  repeated  a  deep,  serious,  but 
melodious  voice  ;  "  whom  do  you  call  your  father  !" 

Elizabeth,  in  her  agitation,  had  not  caught  her  aunt's  name, 
and  turned  with  surprise  to  the  questioner,  whom  Lady 
Cecil  introduced  as  one  who  had  known  and  loved  her  real 


FALKNER.  246 

father ;  as  her  aunt,  come  to  offer  a  happy  and  honourable 
home — and  the  affection  of  a  relative  to  one  so  long  lost,  so 
gladly  found. 

"  We  have  come  to  carry  you  off  with  us,"  said  Lady  Ce- 
cil; "your  position  here  is  altogether  disagreeable;  but  ev- 
erything is  changed  now,  and  you  will  come  with  us." 

"  But  my  father,"  cried  Elizabeth ;  "  for  what  other 
name  can  I  give  to  my  benefactor  ?  Dear  Lady  Cecil,  where 
is  he  1" 

"  Do  you  not  then  know  V  asked  Lady  Cecil,  hesitatingly. 

"  This  very  morning  I  heard  something  frightful,  heart- 
breaking ;  but  since  you  are  here,  it  must  be  all  a  fiction,  or 
at  least  the  dreadful  mistake  is  put  right.  Tell  me,  where 
is  Mr.  FalknerV 

"I  know  less  than  you,  I  believe,"  replied  her  friend; 
"  my  information  is  only  gathered  from  the  hasty  letters  of 
my  brother,  which  explain  nothing." 

"  But  Mr.  Neville  has  told  you,"  said  Ehzabeth,  "  that  my 
dear  father  is  accused  of  murder ;  accused  by  him  who  pos- 
sesses the  best  proof  of  his  innocence.  I  had  thought  Mr. 
Neville  generous,  unsuspicious — " 

"  Nor  is  it  he,"  interrupted  Lady  Cecil,  "  who  brings  this 
accusation.  I  tell  you  I  know  little ;  but  Sir  Boyvill  is  the 
origin  of  Mr.  Falkner's  arrest.  The  account  he  read 
seemed  to  him  unsatisfactory,  and  the  remains  of  poor  Mrs. 
Neville.  Indeed,  dear  Elizabeth,  you  must  not  question  me, 
for  I  know  nothing  ;  much  less  than  you.  Gerard  puts  much 
faith  in  the  innocence  of  Mr.  Falkner." 

"  Bless  him  for  that!"  cried  Elizabeth,  tears  gushing  into 
her  eyes.  "  Oh  yes,  I  knew  tliat  he  would  be  just  and 
generous.  My  poor,  poor  father  !  by  what  fatal  mistake  is 
your  cause  judged  by  one  incapable  of  understanding  or 
appreciating  you  ?" 

"  Yet,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  "  he  cannot  be  wholly  innocent ; 
the  flight,  the  catastrophe,  the  concealment  of  his  victim's 
death;  is  there  not  guilt  in  these  events T' 

"  Much,  much ;  I  will  not  excuse  or  extenuate.  If  ever 
you  read  his  narrative,  which,  at  his  desire,  I  gave  Mr. 
Neville,  you  will  learn  from  that  every  exculpation  he  can 
allege.  It  is  not  for  me  to  speak,  nor  to  hear  even  of  his 
past  errors;  never  was  remorse  more  bitter,  contrition  more 
sincere.  But  for  me,  he  had  not  survived  the  unhappy  lady 
a  week ;  but  for  me,  he  had  died  in  Greece,  to  expiate  his 
fault.     Will  not  this  satisfy  his  angry  accusers? 

"  I  must  act  from  higher  motives.  Gratitude,  duty,  every 
human  obligation  bind  me  to  him.  He  took  me,  a  deserted 
orphan,  from  a  state  of  miserable  dependance  on  a  grudging, 
vulgar  woman  :  he  brought  me  up  as  his  child ;  he  was  more 
to  me  than  father  ever  was.  He  has  nursed  me  as  my  own 
mother  w-ould  in  sickness  ;  in  perilous  voyages  he  has  car- 
2T 


246  FALKNER. 

ried  nie  in  his  arms,  and  sheltered  me  from  the  storm,  while 
he  exposed  himself  for  my  sake ;  year  after  year,  while 
none  else  have  cared  for,  have  thought,  of  me,  1  have  been 
the  object  of  his  solicitude.  He  has  consented  to  endure 
hfe,  that  I  might  not  be  left  desolate,  when  I  knew  not  that 
one  of  my  father's  family  would  acknowledge  me.  Shall 
I  desert  him  now?     Never!" 

"  But  you  cannot  help  him,"  said  Lady  Cecil ;  "  he  must 
be  tried  by  the  laws  of  his  country.  I  hope  he  has  not  in 
truth  offended  against  them  ;  but  you  cannot  serve  him." 

"  Where  is  he,  dear  Lady  Cecil  ]  tell  me  where  he  is." 

"  I  fear  there  can  be  no  doubt  he  is  in  prison  at  Car- 
lisle." 

"And  do  you  think  that  I  cannot  serve  him  there?  in 
prison  as  a  criminal !  Miserable  as  his  fate  makes  me,  mis- 
erable as  I  too  well  know  that  he  is,  it  is  some  compensa- 
tion to  my  selfish  heart  to  know  that  I  can  serve  him,  that 
I  can  be  all  in  all  of  happiness  and  comfort  to  him.  Even 
now  he  pines  for  me ;  he  knows  that  I  never  leave  his  side 
when  in  sorrow;  he  wonders  I  am  not  already  there.  Yes, 
in  prison,  in  shame,  he  will  be  happy  when  he  sees  me 
again.  I  shall  go  to  him,  and  then,  too,  I  shall  have  com- 
fort." 

She  spoke  with  a  generous  animation,  while  yet  her  eyes 
glistened,  and  her  voice  trembled  with  emotion.  Lady  Ce- 
cil was  moved,  while  she  deplored ;  she  caressed  her ;  she 
praised,  while  Mrs.  Raby  said,  "  It  is  impossible  not  to  hon- 
our your  intentions,  wliich  spring  from  so  pure  and  noble  a 
source.  I  think,  indeed,  that  you  overrate  your  obligations 
to  Mr.  Falkner.  Had  he  restored  you  to  us  after  your 
mother's  death,  you  would  have  found,  I  trust,  a  happy 
home  with  me.  He  adopted  you,  because  it  best  pleased 
him  so  to  do.  He  disregarded  the  evil  he  brought  upon  us 
by  so  doing  ;  and  only  restored  you  to  us  when  the  conse- 
quence of  his  crimes  prevented  him  from  being  any  longer 
a  protection." 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  if  I  interrupt  you.  Mr. 
Falkner  is  a  suffering,  he  believed  himself  to  be  a  dying, 
man ;  he  lived  in  anguish  till  he  could  declare  his  error,  to 
clear  the  name  of  his  unhappy  victim ;  he  wished  first  to 
secure  my  future  lot,  before  he  dai-ed  fate  for  himself; 
cliance  altered  his  designs ;  such  were  his  motives,  gener- 
ous towards  me  as  they  ever  were." 

"  And  you,  dear  Elizabeth,"  said  Lady  Cecil,  "  must  act 
in  obedience  to  them  and  to  his  wishes.  He  anticipated 
disgrace  from  his  disclosures — a  disgrace  which  you  must 
not  share.  You  speak  like  a  romantic  girl  of  serving  him 
in  prison.  You  cannot  guess  what  a  modern  jail  is,  its  vul- 
gar and  shocking  inhabitants :  the  hideous  language  and 


FALKNER,  247 

squalid  sights  are  such  that  their  very  existence  should  be 
a  secret  to  the  innocent ;  be  assured  that  Mr.  Falkner,  if  he 
be,  as  I  believe  him,  a  man  of  honour  and  deUcacy,  will 
shudder  at  the  very  thought  of  your  approaching  such  con- 
tamination ;  he  will  be  best  pleased  to  know  you  safe  and 
happy  with  your  family." 

"What  a  picture  do  you  draw!"  cried  Elizabeth,  trying 
to  suppress  her  tears  ;  "  my  poor,  poor  father,  whose  life 
hangs  by  a  thread!  how  can  he  survive  the  accumulation 
of  evil  ?  But  he  will  forget  all  these  liorrors  when  I  am 
with  him.  I  know,  thank  God,  I  do  indeed  know,  that  I 
have  power  to  cheer  and  support  him,  even  at  the  worst." 

'•  This  is  madness  V  observed  Lady  Cecil,  in  a  tone  of 
distress. 

Mrs.  Raby  interposed  with  her  suggestions.  She  spoke 
of  her  own  desire,  the  desire  of  all  the  family,  to  welcome 
Elizabeth ;  she  told  her  that  with  them,  belonging  to  them, 
she  had  new  duties  ;  her  obedience  was  due  to  her  rela- 
tives ;  she  must  not  act  so  as  to  injure  tliem.  She  alluded 
to  their  oppressed  religion  ;  to  the  malicious  joy  their  ene- 
mies would  have  in  divulging  such  a  tale  as  that  would  be, 
if  their  niece's  conduct  made  the  whole  course  of  events 
public.  And,  as  well  as  she  could,  she  intimated  that  if  she 
mixed  up  her  name  in  a  tale  so  full  of  horror  and  guilt,  her 
father's  family  could  never  after  receive  her. 

Elizabeth  heard  all  this  with  considerable  coldness.  "  It 
grieves  me,"  she  said,  "  to  repay  intended  kindness  with 
something  like  repulse.  1  have  no  wish  to  speak  of  the 
past ;  nor  to  remind  you  that  if  I  was  not  brought  up  in  obe- 
dience to  you  all,  it  was  because  my  father  was  disown- 
ed, my  mother  abandoned;  and  I,  a  little  child,  an  orphan, 
was  left  to  live  and  die  in  dependance.  I,  who  then  bore 
your  name,  had  become  a  subject  of  niggard  and  degrading 
charity.  Then,  young  as  1  was,  I  felt  gratitude,  obedience, 
duty,  all  due  to  the  generous  benefactor  who  raised  me 
from  this  depth  of  want,  and  made  me  the  child  of  his  heart. 
It  is  a  lesson  I  have  been  learning  many  years ;  I  cannot 
unlearn  it  now.  I  am  his ;  bought  by  his  kindness ;  earned 
by  his  unceasing  care  for  me,  1  belong  to  him — his  child — 
if  you  will,  his  servant — I  do  not  quarrel  with  names — a 
child's  duty  I  pay  him,  and  will  ever.  Do  not  be  angry 
with  me,  dear  aunt,  if  I  may  give  you  that  name — dearest 
Lady  Cecil,  do  not  look  so  imploringly  on  me — I  am  very 
unhappy.  Mr.  Falkner  a  prisoner,  accused  of  the  most  hid- 
eous crime — treated  with  ignominy — he  whose  nerves  are 
agonized  by  a  touch — whose  frame  is  even  now  decaying 
through  sickness  and  sorrow — and  I,  and  every  hope,  away. 
I  am  very  unhappy.  Do  not  urge  me  to  what  is  impossi- 
ble, and  thrice,  thrice  wicked.    1  must  go  to  him ;  day  and 


248  FALKNER. 

night  I  shall  have  no  peace  till  I  am  at  his  side ;  do  not,  for 
my  sake  do  not,  dispute  this  sacred  duty." 

It  was  not  thus  that  the  two  ladies  could  be  led  to  desist ; 
they  soothed  her,  but  again  returned  to  the  charge.  Lady 
Cecil  brought  a  thousand  arguments  of  worldly  wisdom,  of 
feminine  dehcacy.  Mrs.  Raby  insinuated  the  duty  owed  to 
her  family,  to  shield  it  from  the  disgrace  she  was  bringing 
on  it.  They  both  insisted  on  the  impossibility,  on  the  fool- 
ish romance  of  her  notions.  Had  she  been  really  his  daugh- 
ter, her  joining  him  in  prison  was  impracticable — out  of  all 
propriety.  But  Elizabeth  had  been  brought  up  to  regard 
feelings,  rather  than  conventional  observances ;  duties,  not 
proprieties.  All  her  life  Falkner  had  been  her  law,  rule, 
every  tie  to  her  ;  she  knew  and  felt  nothing  beyond.  When 
she  had  followed  him  to  Greece — w^hen  she  had  visited  the 
Morea,  to  bear  him,  dying,  away — when  at  Zante  she  had 
watched  by  his  sick  couch,  the  world,  and  all  the  Rabys  it 
contained,  were  nothing  to  her  ;  and  now,  when  he  was 
visited  by  a  far  heavier  calamity,  when,  in  solitude  and  mis- 
ery, he  had,  besides  her,  no  one  comfort  under  heaven,  was 
she  to  adopt  a  new  system  of  conduct,  become  a  timid, 
home-bred  young  lady,  tied  by  the  most  frivolous  rules,  im- 
peded by  fictitious  notions  of  propriety  and  false  delicacy  ? 
Whether  they  were  right  and  she  were  wrong — whether, 
indeed,  such  submission  to  society — such  viseless,  degra- 
ding dereliction  of  nobler  duties,  was  adapted  for  feminine 
conduct,  and  whether  she,  despising  such  bonds,  sought  a 
bold  and  dangerous  freedom,  she  could  not  tell;  she  only 
knew  and  felt,  that  for  her,  educated,  as  she  had  been,  be- 
yond the  narrow  paling  of  boarding-school  ideas,  or  the  re- 
finements of  a  lady's  boudoir,  that,  where  her  benefactor 
was,  there  she  ought  to  be  ;  and  that  to  prove  her  gratitude, 
to  preserve  her  faithful  attachment  to  him  amid  dire  adver- 
sity, was  her  sacred  duty — a  virtue  before  which  every  mi- 
nor moral  faded  and  disappeared. 

The  discussion  was  long;  and,  even  when  they  found  her 
proof  against  every  attack,  they  would  not  give  up.  They 
entreated  her  to  go  home  with  them  for  that  day.  A  wild 
light  beamed  from  her  eyes.  "  I  am  going  home,"  she 
cried ;  "  an  hour  hence,  and  I  shall  be  gone  to  where  my 
true  home  is.  How  strange  it  is  that  you  should  imagine 
that  I  could  linger  here  ! 

"  Be  not  afraid  for  me,  dear  Lady  Cecil,"  she  continued ; 
all  will  go  well  with  me  ;  and  you  will,  after  a  little  reflec- 
tion, acknowledge  that  I  could  not  act  other  than  I  do.  And 
will  you,  Mrs.  Raby,  forgive  my  seeming  ingratitude  1  I 
acknowledge  the  justice  of  your  demands.  I  thank  you  for 
your  proposed  kindness.  The  name  of  Raby  shall  receive 
no  injury ;  it  shall  never  escape  my  lips.  My  father  will 
preserve  t^e  aame  silence.    Bk?  not  etigry  with  rae ;  b^jt— 


FALKNER.  249 

except  that  I  remember  my  dear  parents  with  aflection — I 
would  s;iy,  I  take  more  joy  and  pride  in  being  his  daughter, 
his  friend  at  tiiis  need,  than  in  the  distinction  and  prosper- 
ity your  kindness  offers.  I  give  up  every  chiini  on  my  fam- 
ily ;  ihe  name  of  Raby  shall  not  be  tainted ;  but  Elizabeth 
Falkner,  with  all  her  wilfulness  and  faults,  shall,  at  least, 
prove  her  gratitude  to  him  who  bestowed  that  appellation 
on  her." 

And  thus  they  parted.  Lady  Cecil  veiling  her  distress  in 
sullenuess ;  while  Mrs.  Raby  was  struck  and  moved  by  her 
niece's  generosity,  which  was  in  accordance  with  her  own 
noble  mind.  But  she  felt  that  other  judges  would  sit  upon 
the  cause,  and  decide  from  other  motives.  She  parted  from 
her  as  a  pagan  rel;itive  might  from  a  young  Christian  mar- 
tyr— admiring,  while  she  deplored  her  sacrifice,  and  feeling 
herself  wholly  incapable  of  saving. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

Elizabeth  delayed  not  a  moment  proceeding  on  her  jour- 
ney;  an  exalted  enthusiasm  made  her  heart  beat  high,  and 
almost  joyously.  This  buoyancy  of  spirit,  springing  from  a 
generous  course  of  action,  is  the  compensation  provided  for 
our  sacrifices  of  inclination — and  at  least,  on  first  setting 
out,  blinds  us  to  the  sad  results  we  may  be  preparing  for 
ourselves.  Elated  by  a  sense  of  acting  according  to  the 
dictates  of  her  conscience,  despite  the  horror  of  the  circum- 
stances that  closed  in  the  prospect,  her  spirits  were  light, 
and  her  eyes  glistened  with  a  feeling  at  once  triumphant 
and  tender,  while  reflecting  on  the  comfort  she  was  bringing 
to  her  imfortunate  benefactor.  A  spasm  of  horror  seized 
her  now  and  then,  as  the  recollection  pressed  that  he  was 
in  prison — accused  as  a  murderer — but  her  young  heart  re- 
fused to  be  cowed,  even  by  the  ignominy  and  anguish  of 
such  a  reflection. 

A  philosopher  not  long  ago  remarked,  when  adverting  to 
the  principle  of  destruction  latent  in  all  works  of  art,  and 
the  overthrow  of  the  most  durable  edifices  ;  "  but  when  they 
are  destroyed,  so  as  to  produce  only  dust,  Nature  asserts  an 
empire  over  them-,  and  the  vegetative  world  rises  in  con- 
stant youth,  and  in  a  period  of  annual  successions,  by  the 
labours  of  man,  providing  food,  vitality  and  beauty  adora 
the  wrecks  of  monuments,  which  were  once  raised  for  pur- 
poses of  glory."  Thus  when  crime  and  wo  attack  and 
wreck  an  erring  human  being,  the  affections  and  virtues  of 
one  faithfully  attached  decorate  the  ruin  with  alien  beauty ; 
L3 


250  FALKNER. 

and  make  that  pleasant  to  the  eye  and  heart  which  other- 
wise we  might  turn  from  as  a  loathsome  spectacle. 

It  was  a  cold  September  day  when  she  began  her  journey, 
and  the  solitary  hours  spent  on  the  road  exhausted  her 
spirits.  In  the  evening  she  arrived  at  Stony  Stratford,  and 
here,  at  the  invitation  of  her  servant,  consented  to  spend 
the  night.  The  solitary  inn-room,  without  a  fire,  and  her 
lonely  supper,  chilled  her;  so  susceptible  are  we  to  the 
minor  casualties  of  life,  even  when  we  meet  the  greater 
with  heroic  resolution.  She  longed  to  skip  the  present 
hour,  to  be  arrived — she  longed  to  see  Falkner,  and  to  hear 
his  voice — she  felt  fulorn  and  deserted.  At  this  moment 
the  door  was  opened,  "  a  gentleman"  was  announced,  and 
Gerard  Neville  entered.  Love  and  nature  at  this  moment 
asserted  their  full  sway — her  heart  bounded  in  her  bosom, 
her  cheek  flushed,  her  soul  was  deluged  at  once  with  a 
sense  of  living  delight — she  had  never  thought  to  see  him 
more — she  had  tried  to  forget  that  she  regretted  this ;  but 
he  was  there,  and  she  felt  that  such  a  pleasure  were  cheaply 
purchased  by  the  sacrifice  of  her  existence.  He  also  felt 
the  influence  of  the  spell.  He  came  agitated  by  many  fears, 
perplexed  by  the  very  motive  that  led  him  to  her — but  she 
was  tliere  in  all  her  charms,  the  dear  object  of  his  nightly 
dreams  and  waking  reveries — hesitation  and  reserve  van- 
ished in  her  presence,  and  they  both  felt  the  aUianceof  their 
hearts. 

"  Now  that  I  am  here,  and  see  you,"  said  Neville,  "  it 
seems  to  me  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  that  I 
should  have  followed  you  as  I  have  done.  While  away,  I 
had  a  thousand  misgivings — and  wherefore  ]  did  you  not 
sympathize  in  my  sufferings,  and  desire  to  aid  me  in  my  en- 
deavours ;  and  I  feel  convinced  that  fate,  while  by  the  turn 
of  events  it  appeared  to  disunite,  has,  in  fact,  linked  us 
closer  than  ever.  I  am  come  with  a  message  from  Sophia 
— and  to  urge  also,  on  my  own  part,  a  change  in  your  re- 
solves ;  you  must  not  pursue  your  present  journey." 

"  You  have,  indeed,  been  taking  a  lesson  from  Lady  Cecil, 
when  you  say  tliis,"  replied  Elizabeth  ;  "  she  has  taught 
you  to  be  worldly  for  me — a  lesson  you  would  not  learn  on 
your  own  account — she  did  not  seduce  me  in  this  way  ;  I 
gave  you  my  support  when  you  were  going  to  America." 

Elizabeth  began  to  speak  almost  sportively,  but  the  men- 
tion of  America  brought  to  her  recollection  the  cause  of  his 
going  and  tlie  circumstances  that  prevented  him;  and  the 
tears  gushed  from  her  eyes  as  she  continued,  in  a  voice 
broken  by  emotion,  "Oh,  Mr.  Neville,  I  smile  while  my 
he^irt  is  breaking — my  dear,  dear  father!  What  misery  is 
this  that  you  have  brought  on  him — and  now,  while  he 
treated  you  witii  unreserve,  have  you  falsely — you  nuist 
know — accused  him  of  crime,  and  pursued  your  vengeance 


FALKNER.  251 

in  a  vindictive  and  ignuminious  manner?  It  is  not  well 
done  !" 

"  I  pardon  your  injustice,"  said  Neville,  "  though  it  is 
very  great.  One  of  my  reasons  for  coming  was  to  explain 
the  exact  state  of  things,  though  I  believed  that  your  knowl- 
edge of  me  would  have  caused  you  to  reject  the  idea  of  my 
being  a  party  to  my  father's  feelings  of  revenge." 

Neville  then  related  all  that  had  passed;  the  discovery  of 
his  mother's  remains  in  the  very  spot  Falknerhad  indicated, 
and  Sir  Boyvill's  resolve  to  bring  the  whole  train  of  events 
before  the  public.  "  Perhaps,"'  he  continued,  '•  my  father 
believes  in  the  justice  of  his  accusation — he  never  saw  Mr. 
Falkner,  and  cannot  be  impressed  as  I  am  by  the  tokens  of 
a  noble  mind,  which,  despite  his  errors,  are  indelibly  im- 
printed on  his  brow.  At  all  events,  he  is  filled  with  a  sense 
of  his  own  injuries — stung  by  the  disdain  heaped  on  him 
in  that  narration,  and  angry  that  he  had  been  led  to  wrong 
a  wife,  the  memory  of  whose  virtues  and  beauty  now  re- 
vives bitterly  to  reproach  him.  I  cannot  wonder  at  his  con- 
duct, even  while  1  deplore  it ;  I  do  deplore  it  on  your  ac- 
count; for  Mr.  Falkner,  God  knows  I  would  have  visited 
his  crime  in  another  mode ;  yet  all  he  suffers  he  has 
brought  on  himself — he  must  feel  it  due — and  must  bear  it 
as  best  he  may  :  forgive  me  if  I  seem  harsh — I  compassion- 
ate him  through  you — I  cannot  for  his  own  sake." 

"  How  falsely  do  you  reason,"  cried  Elizabeth  ;  "  and  you 
also  are  swayed  and  perverted  by  passion.  Ke  is  innocent 
of  the  hideous  crime  laid  to  his  charge — you  know  and  feel 
that  he  is  innocent ;  and  were  he  guilty — 1  have  heard  you 
lament  that  crime  is  so  hardly  visited  by  the  laws  of  soci- 
ety. I  have  heard  you  say,  that  even  where  guilt  is  joined 
to  the  hardness  of  habitual  vice,  that  it  ought  to  be  treated 
with  the  indulgence  of  a  correcting  father,  not  by  the  cruel 
vengeance  of  the  law.  And  now,  when  one  whose  very 
substance  and  flesh  are  corroded  by  remorse — one  whose 
conscience  acts  as  a  perpetual  scourge — one  who  has  expi- 
ated his  fault  by  many  years  spent  in  acts  of  benevolence 
and  heroism ;  this  man,  because  his  error  has  injured  you, 
you,  forgetting  your  own  philosophy,  would  make  over  to  a 
fate  which,  considering  who  and  what  he  is,  is  the  most 
calamitous  human  imagination  can  conceive." 

Neville  could  not  hear  this  appeal  without  the  deepest 
pain.  "  Let  us  forget,"  he  at  last  said,  "  these  things  for  a 
few  minutes.  They  did  not  arise  through  me,  nor  can  1 
prevent  them  ;  indeed,  they  are  now  beyond  all  human  con- 
trol. Falkner  could  as  easily  restore  my  mother,  whose  re- 
mains we  found  mouldering  in  the  grave  which  he  dug  for 
them ;  he  could  as  easily  bring  her  back  to  the  life  and  happi- 
ness of  which  he  deprived  her,  as  I,  my  father,  or  any  one, 
free  him  from  the  course  of  law  to  which  he  is  made  over. 


252  FALKNER. 

We  must  all  abide  by  the  issue — there  is  no  remedy.  But 
you — I  would  speak  of  you — " 

"  I  cannot  speak,  cannot  think  of  myself,"  replied  Eliza- 
beth, "  except  in  one  way — to  think  all  delays  tedious  that 
keep  me  from  my  father's  side,  and  prevent  me  from 
sharing  his  wretchedness." 

"  And  yet  you  must  not  go  to  him,"  said  Neville;  "  yours 
is  the  scheme  of  inexperience — but  it  must  not  be.  How 
can  you  share  Mr.  Falkner's  sorrows  ^  you  will  scarcely  be 
admitted  to  see  him.  And  how  unfit  for  you  is  such  a 
scene  !  You  cannot  guess  what  these  things  are  ;  believe 
me,  they  are  most  unfit  for  one  of  your  sex  and  age.  I 
grieve  to  say  in  what  execration  the  supposed  murderer  of 
my  mother  is  held.  You  would  be  subjected  to  insult,  you 
are  alone  and  unprotected — even  your  high  spirit  would  be 
broken  by  the  evils  that  will  gather  round  you." 

"  1  think  not,"  replied  Elizabeth  ;  "  I  cannot  believe  that 
my  spirit  can  be  broken  by  injustice,  or  that  it  can  quail 
while  1  perform  a  duty.  It  would  indeed — spirit  and  heart 
would  both  break — were  my  conscience  burdened  with  the 
sin  of  deserting  my  father.  In  prison — amid  the  hootings 
of  the  mob — if  for  such  I  am  reserved — I  shall  be  safe  and 
well  guarded  by  the  approbation  of  my  own  mind." 

"  Would  that  an  angel  from  heaven  would  descend  to 
guard  you  !"  cried  Neville,  passionately  ;  "  but  in  this  inex- 
plicable world,  guilt  and  innocence  are  so  mingled,  that  the 
one  reaps  the  blessings  deserved  by  the  other ;  and  the  lat- 
ter sinks  beneath  the  punishment  incurred  by  the  former. 
Else  why,  removed  by  birth,  space,  and  time  from  all  natu- 
ral connexion  with  the  cause  of  all  this  misery,  are  you  cast 
on  this  evil  hour  ?  Were  you  his  daughter,  my  heart  would 
not  rebel — blood  calls  to  blood,  and  a  child's  duty  is  para- 
mount. But  you  are  no  child  of  his ;  you  spring  from  an- 
other race — honour,  affection,  prosperity  await  you  in  your 
proper  sphere.  What  have  you  to  do  with  that  unhappy 
man  ? 

"  Yet  another  word,"  he  continued,  seeing  Elizabeth 
aboirt  to  reply  with  eagerness;  "  and  yet  how  vain  are 
words  to  persuade.  Could  I  but  take  you  to  a  tower,  and 
show  you,  spread  below,  the  course  of  events,  and  the  fatal 
results  of  your  present  resolves,  you  would  suffer  me  to 
lead  you  from  the  dangerous  path  you  are  treading.  If 
once  you  reach  Cumberland,  and  appear  publicly  as  Falk- 
ner's daughter,  the  name  of  Raby  is  lost  to  you  forever; 
and  if  the  Avorst  should  come,  Avhere  will  you  turn  for  sup- 
port I  Where  fly  for  refuge  I  Unable  to  convince,  I  would 
substitute  entreaty,  and  implore  you  to  spare  yourself  these 
evils.  You  know  not,  indeed  you  do  not  know,  what  you 
are  about  to  do." 

Thus  impetuously  urged,  Elizabeth  was  for  a  few  minutes 


PALKNER.  253 

half  bewildered  ;  "  I  am  afraid,"  she  said, "  I  suppose,  indeed, 
that  1  am  something  of  a  savage — unable  to  bend  to  the 
laws  of  civilization.  I  did  not  know  tiiis — I  thought  1  was 
much  like  other  girls — attached  to  their  home  and  parents 
— fulfilling  their  daily  duties,  as  the  necessities  of  those  pa- 
rents demand.  I  nursed  my  father  when  sick  :  now  that  he 
is  in  worse  adversity,  I  still  feel  my  proper  place  to  be  at 
his  side,  as  his  comforter  and  companion,  glad  if  I  can  be  of 
any  solace  to  him.  He  is  my  father — my  more  than  father 
— my  preserver  in  helpless  childhood  from  the  worst  fate. 
May  I  suffer  every  evil  when  I  forget  that !  Even  if  a  false 
belief  of  his  guilt  renders  the  world  inimical  to  him,  it  will 
not  be  so  unjust  to  one  as  unoffending  as  I ;  and  if  it  is,  it 
cannot  touch  me.  Methinks  we  speak  two  languages — I 
speak  of  duties  the  most  sacred ;  to  fail  in  which  would 
entail  self-condemnation  on  me  to  the  end  of  my  days. 
You  speak  of  the  conveniences,  the  paint,  the  outside  of 
life,  which  is  as  nothing  in  comparison.  I  cannot  yield — I 
grieve  to  seem  eccentric  and  headstrong — it  is  my  hard  fate, 
not  my  will,  so  to  appear." 

"  Do  not  give  such  aname,"  replied  Neville,  deeply  moved, 
"  to  an  heroic  generosity,  only  too  exalted  for  this  bad 
world.  It  is  I  that  must  yield,  and  pray  to  God  to  shield 
and  recompense  you  as  you  deserve — he  only  can — he  and 
your  own  noble  heart.  And  will  you  pardon  me,  Miss 
Raby  ]" 

"  Do  not  give  me  that  name,"  interrupted  Elizabeth.  "  I 
act  in  contradiction  to  my  relations'  wishes — I  will  not  as- 
sume their  name.  The  other,  too,  must  be  painful  to  you. 
Call  me  Elizabeth—" 

Neville  took  her  hand.  "  I  am,"  he  said,  "  a  selfish, 
odious  being ;  you  are  full  of  self-sacrifice,  of  thought  fof 
others,  of  every  blessed  virtue.  I  think  of  myself — and 
hate  myself  while  I  yield  to  the  impulse.  Dear,  dear  Eliz- 
abeth, since  thus  I  may  call  you,  are  you  not  all  I  have  ever 
imagined  of  excellent  ?  I  love  you  beyond  all  thought  or 
word;  and  have  for  many,  many  months,  sii.-.e  first  I  saw 
you  at  Marseilles.  Without  reflection,  1  knew  and  felt  you 
to  be  the  being  my  soul  thirsted  for.  I  find  you,  and  you 
are  lost !" 

Love's  own  colour  died  deeply  the  cheeks  of  Elizabeth 
— she  felt  recompensed  for  every  suffering  in  the  simple 
knowledge  of  the  sentiment  she  inspired.  A  moment  be- 
fore, clouds  and  storms  had  surrounded  her  horizon ;  now 
the  sun  broke  in  upon  it.  It  was  a  transcendent  though  a 
transient  gleam.  The  thought  of  Falkner  again  obscured 
the  radiance,  which,  even  in  its  momentary  flash,  was  as  if 
an  angel,  bearing  with  it  the  airs  of  paradise,  had  revealed 
itself,  and  then  again  become  obscured- 

Neville  was  less  composed.     He  had  never  fully  entered 
22 


"254  FALKNER. 

into  his  father's  bitter  thoughts  against  Falkner — and  Eliz- 
abeth's fidelity  to  the  unhappy  man  made  hirn  half  suspect 
the  unexampled  cruelty  and  injustice  of  the  whole  proceed- 
ing. Still  compassion  for  the  prisoner  was  a  passive  feel- 
ing; while  horror  at  the  fate  preparing  for  Elizabeth  stirred 
his  sensitive  nature  to  its  depths,  and  filled  him  with  anguish. 
He  walked  impatiently  about  the  room — and  stopped  before 
her,  fixing  on  her  his  soft  lustrous  eyes,  whose  expression 
was  so  full  of  tenderness  and  passion.  Elizabeth  felt  their 
influence ;  but  this  was  not  the  hour  to  yield  to  the  delu- 
sions of  love,  and  she  said — "  Now  you  will  leave  me,  Mr. 
Neville — I  have  far  to  travel  to-morrow — good-night." 

"  Have  patience  with  me  yet  a  moment  longer,"  said  Ne- 
ville ;  "  I  cannot  leave  you  thus — without  off"ering  from  my 
whole  heart,  and  conjuring  you  to  accept  my  services. 
Parting  thus,  it  is  very  uncertain  when  we  meet  again,  and 
fearful  suflTerings  are  prepared  for  you.  I  believe  that  you 
esteem,  that  you  have  confidence  in  me.  You  know  that 
my  disposition  is  constant  and  persevering.  You  know 
that  the  aim  of  my  early  life  being  fulfilled,  and  my  mother's 
name  freed  from  the  unworthy  aspersions  cast  upon  it,  I  at 
once  transfer  every  thought,  every  hope,  to  your  well-being. 
At  a  distance,  knowing  the  scene  of  misery  in  which  you 
are  placed,  I  shall  be  agitated  by  perpetual  fears,  and  pass 
unnumbered  hours  of  bitter  disquietude.  Will  you  promise 
me,  that,  despite  all  that  divides  us,  if  you  need  any  aid  or 
service,  you  will  write  to  me,  commanding  me,  in  the  full 
assurance  that  all  you  order  shall  be  executed  in  its  very 
spirit  and  letter  V 

"  I  will  indeed,"  replied  Elizabeth,  "  for  I  know  that 
whatever  happens  you  will  always  be  my  friend." 

"  Your  true,  your  best,  your  devoted  friend,"  cried  Ne- 
ville ;  "  it  will  always  be  my  dearest  ambition  to  prove  all 
"  this.  I  will  not  adopt  the  name  of  brother — yet  use  me  as 
a  brother — no  brother  ever  cherished  the  honour,  safety, 
and  happiness  of  a  sister  as  I  do  yours." 

"  You  knew,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  that  I  shall  not  be  alone 
—that  I  go  to  one  to  whom  I  owe  obedience,  and  who  can 
direct  me.  If  in  his  frightful  situation  he  needs  counsel  and 
assistance,  it  is  not  you,  alas,  that  can  render  them ;  still 
in  the  world  of  sorrow  in  which  I  shall  soon  be  an  inhabit- 
ant, it  will  be  a  solace  and  support  to  think  of  your  kind- 
ness, and  rely  upon  it  as  unreservedly  as  I  do." 

"  A  world  of  sorrow,  indeed  !"  repeated  Neville ;  "  a 
world  of  ignominy  and  wo,  such  as  ought  never  to  have 
visited  you,  even  in  a  dream.  Its  duration  will  be  prolonged 
also  beyond  all  fortitude  or  patience.  Of  course  Mr.  Falk- 
ner's  legal  advisers  will  insist  on  the  necessity  of  Osborne's 
testimony — he  must  be  sent  for,  and  brought  over.  This 
demands  time  ;  it  will  be  spring  before  the  trial  takes  place." 


FALKNER.  255 

"  And  all  this  time  my  father  will  be  imprisoned  as  a 
felon  in  a  jail,"  cried  Elizabeth,  tears,  bitter  tears  spring- 
ing into  her  eyes.  "  Most  horrible !  Oh  how  necessary 
that  1  should  be  with  him,  to  lighten  the  weary,  unending 
hours.  I  tliought  all  would  soon  be  over — and  his  libera- 
tion at  hand ;  this  delay  of  justice  is  indeed  beyond  my 
fears.  "- 

"  Thank  God,  that  you  are  thus  sanguine  of  the  final  re- 
sult," rephed  Neville.  "  I  will  not  say  a  word  to  shake 
your  confidence,  and  I  fervently  hope  it  is  well  placed.  And 
now  indeed  good-night,  I  will  not  detain  you  longer.  All 
good  angels  guard  you — you  cannot  guess  how  bitterly  I 
feel  the  necessity  that  disjoins  us  in  this  hour  of  mutual 
suffering." 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  but  my  thoughts  are 
with  my  father.  You  have  conjured  up  a  whole  train  of 
fearful  anticipations ;  but  I  will  quell  them,  and  be  patient 
again — for  his,  and  all  our  sakes." 

They  separated,  and  at  the  moment  of  parting,  a  gush  of 
tenderness  smoothed  the  harsher  feelings  inspired  by  their 
grief — despite  herself,  Elizabeth  felt  comforted  by  her 
friend's  faithful  and  earnest  attachment ;  and  a  few  minutes 
passed  in  self-communion  restored  lier  to  those  hopes  for 
the  best,  which  are  the  natural  growth  of  youth  and  inex- 
perience. Neville  left  the  inn  immediately  on  quitting  her; 
and  she,  unable  to  sleep,  occupied  by  various  reveries, 
passed  a  few  uneasy,  and  yet  not  wholly  miserable,  hours. 
A  hallowed  calm  at  last  succeeded  to  her  anxious  fears  ; 
springing  from  a  reliance  on  Heaven,  and  the  natural  de- 
light of  being  loved  by  one  so  dear  ;  it  smoothed  her  wrink- 
led cares  and  blunted  her  poignant  regrets. 

At  earliest  dakn  she  sprung  from  her  bed,  eager  to  pursue 
her  journey — nor  did  she  again  take  rest  till  she  arrived  at 
Carlisle. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

In  the  best  room  that  could  be  allotted  to  him  consistently 
with  safe  imprisonment,  and  with  such  comforts  around  as 
money  might  obtain,  Falkner  passed  the  lingering  days. 
"What  so  forlorn  as  the  comforts  of  a  prison!  the  wigwam 
of  the  Indian  is  more  pleasing  to  the  imagination — that  is 
in  close  contiguity  with  Nature,  and  partakes  iier  charm — 
no  barrier  exists  between  it  and  freedom — and  Nature  and 
freedom  are  the  stanch  friends  of  unsophisticated  man. 
But  a  jail's  best  room  sickens  the  heart  in  its  very  show  of 


256  FALKNER. 

accommodation.  The  strongly-barred  windows,  looking 
out  on  the  narrow  court,  surrounded  by  high  frowning 
walls  ;  the  appalling  sounds  that  reach  the  ear,  in  such 
close  neighbourhood  to  crime  and  wo  ;  the  squalid  appear- 
ance given  to  each  inhabitant  by  the  confined  air — the  surly, 
authoritative  manners  of  the  attendants — not  dependant  on 
the  prisoner,  but  on  the  state — the  knowledge  that  all  may 
come  in,  while  he  cannot  get  out — and  the  conviction  that 
the  very  unshackled  state  of  his  limbs  depends  upon  his 
tame  submission  and  apparent  apathy ;  there  is  no  one  cir- 
cumstance that  does  not  wound  the  free  spirit  of  man,  and 
make  him  envy  the  meanest  animal  that  breathes  the  free 
air,  and  is  at  liberty. 

Falkner,  by  that  strange  law  of  our  nature  which  makes 
lis  conceive  the  future,  without  being  aware  of  our  fore- 
knowledge, had  acquainted  his  imagination  with  these 
things — and  while  writing  his  history  amid  the  far-stretched 
mountains  of  Greece,  had  shrunk  and  trembled  before  such 
an  aspect  of  slavery ;  and  yet  now  that  it  had  fallen  on  him, 
he  felt  in  the  first  instance  more  satisfied,  more  trlily  free, 
than  for  many  a  long  day  before. 

There  is  no  tyranny  so  hard  as  fear ;  no  prison  so  abhor- 
rent as  apprehension ;  Falkner  was  not  a  coward,  yet  he 
feared.  He  feared  discovery — he  feared  ignominy,  and  had 
eagerly  sought  death  to  free  him  from  the  terror  of  such 
evils,  with  which,  perhaps — so  strangely  are  we  formed — 
Osborne  had  infected  him.  It  had  come — it  was  here — it 
was  his  life,  his  daily  bread ;  and  he  rose  above  the  infliction 
calmly,  and  almost  proudly.  It  is  with  pride  that  we  say  that 
we  endure  the  worst — there  is  a  very  freedom  in  the  thought, 
that  the  animosity  of  all  mankind  is  roused  against  us — and 
every  engine  set  at  work  for  our  injury — no  more  can  be 
done — the  gulf  is  passed — the  claw  of  the  wild  beast  is  on 
our  heart — but  the  spirit  soars  more  freely  still.  To  this 
was  added  the  singular  relief  which  confession  brings  to  the 
human  heart.  Guilt  hidden  in  the  recesses  of  the  con- 
science assumes  gigantic  and  distorted  dimensions.  When 
the  secret  is  shared  by  another,  it  falls  back  at  once  into 
its  natural  pi'oportion. 

Much  had  this  man  of  wo  endnred — the  feeling  against- 
him  throughout  the  part  of  the  country  where  he  now  was 
was  vehement.  The  discovery  of  poor  AHthea's  remains — 
the  inquest,  and  its  verdict — the  unhappy  lady's  funeral — 
had  spread  fur  and  wide  his  accusation.  It  had  been  found 
necessary  to  take  him  into  Carlisle  by  night ;  and  even  then, 
some  few  remained  in  waiting,  and  roused  their  fellows, 
and  the  hootings  of  execration  were  raised  against  him. 
"  I  end  as  I  began,"  thought  Falkner  ;  "  amid  revilings  and 
injustice — I  can  surely  suffer  now  that  which  was  so  often 
my  lot  in  the  first  dawn  of  boyhood." 


FALKNER.  257 

His  examination  before  the  magistrates  was  a  more  pain- 
ful proceeding.  There  was  no  glaring  injustice,  no  vindic- 
tive hatred  here,  and  yet  he  was  accused  of  the  foulest 
cvime  in  nature,  and  saw  in  many  faces  the  belief  that  he 
was  a  murderer.  The  murderer  of  Alithea  !  He  could 
have  laughed  in  scorn,  to  think  that  such  an  idea  had  en- 
tered a  man's  mind.  She,  an  angel  whom  he  worshipped — 
whom  to  save  he  would  have  met  ten  thousand  deaths — 
how  mad  a  world — how  insane  a  system  must  it  be,  where 
such  a  thought  was  not  scouted  as  soon  as  conceived  ! 

Falkner  had  no  vulgar  mind.  In  early  youth  he  experi- 
enced those  aspirations  after  excellence  which  betoken 
the  finely  moulded  among  our  fellow-creatures.  There 
was  a  type  of  virtue  engraved  in  his  heart,  after  which  he 
desired  to  model  himself.  Since  the  hour  when  the  conse- 
quences of  his  guilt  revealed  its  true  form  to  him,  he  had 
striven,  like  an  eagle  in  an  iron-bound  cage,  to  free  himself 
from  the  trammels  of  conscience.  He  felt  within  how 
much  better  lie  might  be  than  anything  he  was.  But  all 
this  was  unacknowledged  and  uncared  for  in  the  present 
scene — it  was  not  the  heroism  of  his  soul  that  was  inquired 
into,  but  the  facts  of  his  whereabouts  ;  not  the  sacred  na- 
ture of  his  worship  for  Alithea,  but  whether  he  had  had  oppor- 
tunity to  perpetrate  crime.  When  we  are  conscious  of  in- 
nocence, what  so  heart-sickening  as  to  combat  circum- 
stances that  accuse  us  of  guilt  which  we  abhor.  His  pris- 
on-room was  a  welcome  refuge  after  such  an  ordeal. 

His  spirit  could  not  be  cowed  by  misfortune,  and  he  felt 
unnaturally  glad  to  be  where  he  was  ;  he  felt  glad  to  be  the 
victim  of  injustice,  the  mark  of  unspeakable  adversity  ;  but 
his  body's  strength  failed  to  keep  pace  with  the  lofty  dis- 
dain of  his  soul — and  Elizabeth,  where  was  she  I  He  re- 
joiced that  she  was  absent  when  torn  from  his  home ;  he 
had  directed  the  servants  to  say  nothing  to  ]\Iiss  Falkner — 
he  would  write ;  and  he  luid  meant  to  fulfil  this  promise, 
but  each  time  he  thought  to  do  so  he  shrunk  repugnant. 
He  would  not  for  worlds  call  her  to  his  side,  to  share  the 
horrors  of  his  lot ;  and  feeling  sure  that  she  would  be  vis- 
ited by  some  member  of  her  father's  family,  he  thought  it 
best  to  let  things  take  their  course — unprotected  and  alone, 
she  would  gladly  accept  refuge  there  where  it  was  oflered 
— and  the  tie  snapped  between  them— happiness  and  love 
would  alike  smile  on  her. 

He  had  it  deeply  at  heart  that  she  should  not  be  mingled 
in  the  frightful  details  of  his  present  situation,  and  yet 
drearily  he  missed  her,  for  he  loved  her  with  a  feeling 
which,  though  not  paternal,  was  as  warm  as  ever  filled  a 
father's  breast.  His  passions  were  ardent,  and  all  that 
could  be  spared  from  remorse  were  centred  in  his  adopted 
child.  He  had  looked  on  her.  as  the  prophet  might  on  the 
22* 


258  FALKNER. 

angel  who  ministered  to  his  wants  in  the  desert :  in  the 
abandonment  of  all  mankind,  in  tlie  desolation  to  which  his 
crime  had  led  him,  she  had  brought  love  and  cheer.  Slie 
had  been  his  sweet  household  companion,  his  familiar 
friend,  his  patient  nurse — his  soul  had  grown  to  her  image, 
and  when  the  place  was  vacant  that  she  had  filled,  he  was 
excited  by  eager  longings  for  her  presence,  that  even  made 
his  man's  heart  soft  as  a  woman's  with  very  desire. 

By  degrees,  as  he  thought  of  her  and  the  past,  the  hero- 
ism of  his  soul  was  undermined  and  weakened.  To  every 
eye  he  continued  composed,  and  even  cheerful,  as  before. 
None  could  read  in  his  impassive  countenance  the  misery 
that  dwelt  within.  He  spent  his  time  in  reading  and  wri- 
ting, and  in  necessary  communications  with  the  lav/yers 
who  were  to  conduct  his  defence  ;  and  all  this  was  done 
with  a  calm  eye  and  unmoved  voice.  No  token  of  com- 
plaint or  impatience  ever  escaped ;  he  seemed  equal  to  the 
fortune  that  attacked  him.  He  grew,  indeed,  paler  and 
thinner — till  his  handsome  features  stood  out  in  their  own 
expressive  beauty ;  he  might  have  served  for  a  model  of 
Prometheus — the  vulture  at  his  heart  producing  pangs  and 
spasms  of  physical  suflfering  ;  but  his  will  unconquered — 
his  mind  refusing  to  acknowledge  the  bondage  to  which  his 
body  was  the  prey.  It  was  an  unnatural  combat ;  for  the 
tenderness  which  was  blended  with  his  fiercer  passions, 
and  made  the  charm  of  his  character,  sided  with  his  ene- 
mies, and  made  him  less  able  to  bear,  than  one  more  rough- 
ly and  hardly  framed. 

He  loved  nature — he  had  spent  his  life  among  her  scenes. 
Nothing  of  her  visited  him  now,  save  a  star  or  two  that 
rose  above  the  prison  wall  into  the  slip  of  sky  his  window 
commanded ;  they  were  the  faintest  stars  in  heaven,  and 
often  were  shrouded  by  clouds  and  mist.  Thus  doubly  im- 
prisoned. Ills  body  barred  by  physical  impediments — his 
soul  shut  up  in  itself — he  became,  in  the  energetic  language 
of  genius,  the  cannibal  of  his  own  heart.  Without  a  vent 
for  any,  thoughts  revolved  in  his  brain  with  the  velocity 
and  action  of  a  thousand  mill-wheels,  and  would  not  be 
stopped.  Now  a  spasm  of  painful  emotion  covered  his  brow 
with  a  cold  dew — now  self-contempt  made  every  portion  of 
himself  detestable  in  his  own  eyes — now  he  felt  the  curse 
of  God  upon  him,  weighing  him  down  with  heavy,  relent- 
less burden ;  and  then  again  he  was  assailed  by  images  of 
freedom,  and  keen  longings  for  the  free  air.  "  If  even,  like 
iMazeppa,  I  might  seek  the  wilds,  and  career  along,  though 
death  was  the  bourn  in  view,  I  were  happy  !"  These  wild 
thoughts  crossed  him,  exaggerated  into  gasping  desire  to 
achieve  such  a  fate,  when  the  sights  and  sounds  of  a  prison 
gathered  thick  around,  and  made  the  very  tliought  of  his 
fellow-creatures  one  of  disgust  and  abhorrence. 


FALKNER.  259 

Thus  sunk  in  gloom,  far  deeper  internally  than  in  outward 
show — warring  with  remorse  and  the  sense  of  unmerited 
injury — vanquished  by  fate,  yet  refusing  to  yield,  imture  had 
reached  tlie  acme  of  suffering.  He  grew  to  be  careless  of 
the  result  of  his  trial,  and  to  neglect  the  means  of  safety. 
He  pondered  on  self-destruction — though  that  were  giving 
the  victory  to  his  enemies.  He  looked  round  him  ;  his  cell 
appeared  a  tomb.  He  felt  as  if  he  had  passed  out  of  life 
into  death ;  strange  thoughts  and  images  flitted  through  his 
mind,  and  the  mortal  struggle  drew  to  a  close^-when,  on  a 
day,  his  prison-door  opened,  and  Elizabeth  stepped  within 
the  threshold. 

To  see  the  beloved  being  we  long  for  inexpressibly,  and 
believe  to  be  so  far — to  hear  the  dear  voice,  whose  &weet 
accent  we  imagined  to  be  mute  to  us  for  ever — to  feel  the 
creature's  very  soul  in  real  communion  with  us,  and  the 
person  we  dote  on  visible  to  our  eyes,  such  are  moments 
of  bliss,  which  the  very  imperfections  of  our  finite  nature 
render  immeasurably  dear.  Falkner  saw  his  child,  and 
felt  no  longer  imprisoned.  She  was  freedom  and  security. 
Looking  on  her  sweet  face,  he  could  not  believe  in  the  ex- 
istence of  evil.  Wrongs  and  wo,  and  a  torturing  conscience, 
melted  and  fled  away  before  her ;  while  fresh-springing  hap- 
piness filled  every  portion  of  his  being. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

Elizabeth  arrived  at  the  moment  of  the  first  painful  crisis 
of  Falkner's  fate.  The  assizes  came  on — busy  faces  crowd- 
ed into  his  cell,  and  various  consultations  took  place  as  to 
the  method  of  his  defence  ;  and  here  began  a  series  of  cares, 
mortifications,  and  worse  anxieties,  which  brought  home  to 
the  hearts  of  the  sufferers  the  hoirors  of  their  position. 

The  details  of  crime  and  its  punishment  are  so  alien  to 
the  individuals  placed  in  the  upper  classes  of  society,  that 
they  read  them  as  tales  of  another  and  a  distant  land.  And 
it  is  like  being  cast  away  on  a  strange  and  barbarous  coun- 
try to  find  such  become  a  part  of  our  own  lives.  The  list 
of  criminals — the  quality  of  their  offences — the  position 
Falkner  held  among  them,  were  all  discussed  by  the  men  of 
law ;  and  Falkner  listened,  impassive  in  seeming  apathy — 
his  eagle  eye  bent  on  vacancy — his  noble  brow  showing  no 
trace  of  the  rush  of  agonizing  thought  that  flowed  through 
his  brain ;  it  was  not  till  he  saw  his  child's  earnest,  search- 
ing eyes  bent  on  him  that  he  smiled,  so  to  soften  tlie  keen- 
ness of  her  lively  sympathy.     She  listened  too,  her  cheek 


260  FALKNER. 

alternately  flushed  and  pale,  and  her  eyes  brimming  over 
with  tears,  as  she  drew  nearer  to  her  unfortunate  friend's 
side,  as  if  her  innocence  and  love  might  stand  between  him 
and  the  worst. 

The  decision  of  the  grand  jury  was  the  first  point  to  be 
considered.  Tliere  existed  no  doubt  but  that  that  would  go 
against  the  accused.  The  lawyers  averred  this,  but  still 
Elizabeth  hoped ;  men  could  not  be  so  blind,  or  some  un- 
foreseen enlightenment  might  dawn  on  their  understandings. 
The  witnesses  against  him  were  Sir  Boyvill  and  his  son  ; 
the  latter,  she  well  knew,  abhorred  the  course  pursued;  and 
if  some  touch  could  reach  Sir  Boyvill's  heart,  and  show  him 
the  unwortliiness  and  falsehood  of  his  proceedings,  through 
the  mode  in  which  their  evidence  might  be  given,  all  would 
alter — the  scales  would  drop  from  men's  eyes,  the  fetters 
from  Falkner's  limbs,  and  this  strange  and  horrible  entan- 
glement be  dissipated  like  morning  mist.  She  brooded  for 
ever  on  these  thoughts  ;  sometimes  she  pondered  on  writing 
to  Neville — sometimes  on  seeing  his  father ;  but  his  asser- 
tion was  recollected  that  nothing  now  could  alter  the  course 
of  events,  and  that  drove  her  back  upon  despair. 

For  ever  thinking  on  these  things  and  hearing  them  dis- 
cussed, it  was  yet  a  severe  blow  to  both  when,  in  the  tech- 
nical language  of  the  craft,  it  was  announced  that  a  true  bill 
was  found  against  Rupert  Falkner. 

Such  is  the  nature  of  the  mind,  that  hitherto  Falkner  had 
never  looked  on  the  coming  time  in  its  true  proportions  or 
colours.  The  decision  of  the  preliminarj'  jury,  which  jnight 
be  in  his  favour,  had  stood  as  a  screen  between  him  and  the 
future.  Knowing  himself  to  be  innocent,  abhorring  the  very 
iftiage  of  the  crime  of  which  he  was  accused,  how  could 
twelve  impartial,  educated  men  agree  that  any  construction 
put  upon  his  actions  should  cast  the  accusation  on  him  1 
The  lawyers  had  told  him  that  so  it  would  be — he  had  read 
the  fearful  expectation  in  Elizabeth's  eyes — but  it  could  not! 
Justice  was  not  a  mere  word — innocence  bore  a  stamp  not 
to  be  mistaken ;  the  vulgar  and  senseless  malice  of  Sir  Boy- 
vill would  be  scouted  and  reprobated  ;  such  was  his  intimate 
conviction,  though  he  had  never  expressed  it ;  but  this  was 
all  clianged  now.  The  tale  of  horror  was  admitted,  regis- 
tered as  a  probability,  and  had  become  a  rule  for  future  acts. 
The  ignominy  of  a  public  trial  would  assuredly  be  his.  And 
going,  as  is  usual,  from  one  extreme  to  the  other,  the  belief 
entered  his  soul  that  he  should  be  foimd  guilty  and  die  the 
death.  A  dark  veil  fell  over  life  and  nature.  Ofttimes  he 
felt  glad  even  to  escape  tlms  from  a  hideous  system  of 
wrong  and  suffering ;  but  the  innate  pride  of  the  heart  re- 
belled, and  his  soid  struggled  as  in  the  toils. 

Elizabeth  heard  the  decision  with  even  more  dismay ;  her 
head  swam,  and  she  grew  sick  at  heart.     Would  his  trial 


PALKNER.  261 

come  on  in  a  few  days  1  would  all  soon,  so  soon,  be  deci- 
ded] was  the  very  moment  near  at  hand  to  make  or  mar 
existence,  and  turn  this  earth  from  a  scene  of  hope  into  a 
very  hell  of  torture  and  despair  ?  for  such  to  her  it  must  be 
if  the  worst  befell  Falkner.  The  worst!  oh,  what  a  worst! 
how  hideous,  squalid,  unredeemed!  There  was  madness  in 
the  thouglit,  and  slie  hurried  to  his  cell  to  see  him  and  hear 
liim  speak,  so  to  dissipate  the  horror  of  her  thoughts  ;  her 
presence  of  mind,  her  equanimity,  all  deserted  her;  she 
looked  bewildered — her  heart  beat  as  if  it  would  burst  her 
bosom — her  face  grew  ashy  pale — her  limbs  unstrung  of 
every  strength — and  her  efforts  to  conceal  her  weakness 
from  Falkner's  eyes  but  served  the  more  to  confuse. 

She  found  him  seated  near  his  window,  looking  on  so 
much  of  the  autumnal  sky  as  could  be  perceived  through 
the  bars  of  the  high  narrow  opening.  The  clouds  traversed 
the  slender  portion  of  heaven  thus  visible ;  they  fled  fast  to 
other  lands,  and  the  spirit  of  liberty  rode  upon  their  out- 
stretched wings  ;  away  they  flew  far  from  him,  and  he  had 
no  power  to  reach  their  bourn,  nor  to  leave  tlie  dingy  walls 
that  held  him  in.  Oh,  Nature  i  while  we  possess  thee,  thy 
changes  ever  lovely,  thy  vernal  airs  or  majestic  storms,  thy 
vast  creation  spread  at  our  feet,  above,  around  us,  how  can 
we  call  ourselves  unhappy "?  There  is  brotherhood  in  the 
growing,  opening  flowers,  love  in  the  soft  winds,  repose  in 
the  verdant  expanse,  and  a  quick  spirit  of  happy  life  through- 
out, with  which  our  souls  hold  glad  communion.  But  the 
poor  prisoner  was  barred  out  from  these ;  how  cumbrous 
the  body  felt,  how  alien  to  the  inner  spirit  of  man  the  fleshy 
bars- that  allowed  it  to  become  the  slave  of  his  fellows. 

The  stunning  effects  of  the  first  blow  had  passed  away, 
and  there  was  in  Falkner's  face  that  lofty  expression  that 
resembled  coldness,  though  it  was  the  triumph  over  sensi- 
bility ;  something  of  disdain  curled  his  lip,  and  his  whole  air 
denoted  the  acquisition  of  a  power  superior  to  fate.  Trem- 
bling, Elizabeth  entered ;  never  before  had  she  lost  self- 
command  ;  even  now  she  paused  at  the  threshold  to  resume 
it,  but  in  vain ;  she  saw  him,  she  flew  to  his  arms,  she  dis- 
solved in  tears,  and  became  all  woman  in  her  tender  fears. 
He  was  touched — he  would  have  soothed  her  ;  a  choking 
sensation  arose  in  his  throat :  "  I  never  felt  a  prisoner  till 
now,"  he  cried  :  "  can  you  still  cling  to  one  struck  with  in- 
famy V' 

"  Dearer,  more  beloved  than  ever !"  she  nun-mured : 
"  surely  there  is  no  tie  so  close  and  strong  as  miserj'l" 

"  Dear,  generous  girl."  said  Falkner,  "how  I  h>»te  myself 
for  making  such  large  demand  on  your  sympathy.  Let  me 
suffer  alone.  Tliis  is  not  the  place  for  you,  Flizalicth. 
Your  free  step  should  be  on  tlie  mountain's  side ;  these 
silken  tresses   the   playthings  of  the   unconfined    winds 


262  PALKNER. 

While  I  thought  that  I  should  speedily  be  liberated,  I  was 
willing  to  enjoy  the  comfort  of  your  society ;  but  now  I,  the 
murderer,  am  not  a  fit  mate  for  you.  I  am  accursed,  and  pull 
disaster  down  on  all  near  me.  I  was  born  to  destroy  the 
young  and  beautiful." 

With  such  talk  they  tried  to  baffle  this  fierce  visitation  of 
adversity.  Falkner  told  her  that  on  that  day  it  would  be  de- 
cided whether  the  trial  should  take  place  at  once,  or  time 
be  given  to  send  for  Osborne  from  America.  The  turn  Ne- 
ville had  given  to  his  evidence  had  been  so  favourable  to  the 
accused  as  to  shake  the  prejudice  against  him,  and  it  was 
believed  that  the  judges  would  at  once  admit  the  necessity 
of  waiting  for  so  material  a  witness  ;  and  yet  their  first  and 
dearest  hope  had  been  destroyed,  so  they  feared  to  give  way 
to  a  new  one. 

As  they  conversed,  the  solicitor  entered  with  good  tidings. 
The  trial  was  put  off  till  the  ensuing  assizes  in  March,  to 
give  time  for  the  arrival  of  Osborne.  The  hard  dealing  of 
destiny  and  man  relented  a  little,  and  despair  receded  from 
their  hearts,  leaving  space  to  breathe,  to  pray,  to  hope.  No 
time  was  to  be  lost  in  sending  for  Osborne.  Would  he  come  ■? 
It  could  not  be  doubted.  A  free  pardon  was  to  be  extended 
to  him  ;  and  he  would  save  a  fellow-creature,  and  his  former 
benefactor,  without  any  risk  of  injury  to  himself. 

The  day  closed,  therefore,  more  cheeringly  than  it  had 
begun.  Falkner  conquered  himself,  even  to  a  show  of 
cheerfulness  ;  and  recalled  the  colour  to  his  tremulous  com- 
panion's cheeks,  and  half  a  smile  to  her  lips,  by  his  encour- 
agement. He  turned  her  thoughts  from  the  immediate 
subject,  narrating  the  events  of  his  first  acquaintance  with 
Osborne,  and  describing  the  man  ;  a  poltron,  but  kindly 
hearted — fearful  of  his  own  skin  to  a  contemptible  extent, 
but  looking  up  with  awe  to  his  superiors,  and  easily  led 
by  one  richer  and  of  higher  station  to  any  line  of  con- 
duct; an  inborn  slave,  but  with  many  of  a  slave's  good 
qualities.  Falkner  did  not  doubt  that  he  would  put  him- 
self eagerly  forward  on  the  present  occasion ;  and  what- 
ever his  evidence  were  good  for,  it  would  readily  be  pro- 
duced. 

There  was  no  reason,  then,  for  despair.  While  the  shock 
they  had  undergone  took  the  sting  from  the  present — fear- 
ing an  immediate  and  horrible  catastrophe — the  wretched- 
ness of  their  actual  state  was  forgotten — it  acquired  comfort 
and  security  by  the  contrast — each  tried  to  clieer  the  other, 
and  they  separated  for  the  night  with  apparent  comi)osure. 
Yet  that  night  Elizabeth's  pillow,  despite  her  earnest  en- 
deavours to  place  reliance  on  Providence,  was  watered 
by  the  bitterest  tears  that  ever  such  young  eyes  slied  ;  and 
Falkner  told  eacli  hour  of  the  livelong  night,  as  his  memory 
retraced  past  scenes,  and  his  spirit  writhed  and  bled  to  feel 


FALKNER.  263 

that,  ill  tlie  wantonness  and  rebellion  of  youth,  he  had 
been  the  author  of  so  wide-spreading,  so  dark  a  web  of 
misery. 

From  this  time  their  days  were  spent  in  that  sort  of  mo- 
notony which  has  a  peculiar  charm  to  the  children  of  adversity. 
The  recurrence  of  one  day  after  the  other,  none  being 
marked  by  disaster,  or  indeed  any  event,  imparted  a  satis- 
faction, gloomy  indeed,  and  sad,  but  grateful  to  the  heart 
wearied  by  many  blows,  and  by  the  excitement  of  mortal 
hopes  and  fears.  The  mind  adapted  itself  to  the  new  state 
of  things,  and  enjoyments  sprung  up  in  the  very  home  of 
desolation — circumstances  that,  in  happier  days,  were  but 
the  regular  routine  of  life,  grew  into  blessings  from  Heav- 
en ;  and  the  thought,  "  Come  what  will,  this  hour  is  safe," 
made  precious  the  mere  passage  of  time — months  Avere 
placed  between  them  and  the  dreaded  crisis- — and  so  are  we 
made,  that  when  once  this  is  an  established,  acknowledged 
fact,  we  can  play  on  the  eve  of  danger  almost  like  the  un- 
conscious animal  destined  to  bleed. 

Their  time  was  regularly  divided,  and  occupations  suc- 
ceeded one  to  another.  Elizabeth  rented  apartments  not  far 
from  the  prison.  She  gave  the  early  morning  hours  to  ex- 
ercise, and  the  rest  of  the  day  was  spent  in  Falkner's  prison. 
He  read  to  her  as  she  worked  at  the  tapestry  frame,  or  she 
took  the  book  while  he  drew  or  sketched  ;  nor  was  music 
wanting,  such  as  suited  the  subdued  tone  of  their  minds,  and 
elevated  it  to  reverence  and  resignation ;  and  sweet  still 
hours  were  spent  near  their  fire ;  fer  their  hearth  gleamed 
cheerfully,  despite  surrounding  horrors — gayety  was  absent, 
but  neither  was  the  voice  of  discontent  heard;  all  repinings 
were  hidden  in  the  recesses  of  their  hearts  ;  their  talk  was 
calm,  abstracted  from  matters  of  daily  life,  but  gifted  with 
the  interest  that  talent  can  bestow  on  all  it  touches. 
Falkner  exerted  himself  chiefly  to  vary  their  topics,  and  to 
enliven  them  by  the  keenness  of  his  observations,  the  beauty 
of  his  descriptions,  and  the  vividness  of  his  narrations.  He 
spoke  of  India,  they  read  various  travels,  and  compared  the 
manners  of  different  countries — they  forgot  the  bars  that 
checkered  the  sunlight  on  the  floor  of  the  cell — they  for- 
got the  cheerless  gloom  of  each  surrounding  object.  Did 
they  also  forget  the  bars  and  bolts  between  them  and  free- 
dom^ the  thoughtful  tenderness  which  had  become  the 
habitual  expression  of  f]lizabeth's  face — the  subdued  man- 
ner and  calm  tones  of  Falkner  were  a  demonstration  that 
they  did  not.  Something  they  were  conscious  of  at  each 
minute,  that  checked  the  free  pulsations  of  their  hearts ;  a 
word  in  a  book,  brought  by  some  association  home  to  her 
feehngs,  would  cause  Elizabeth's  eyes  to  fill  with  unbidden 
tears — and  proud  scorn  would  now  and  then  dilate  the  breast 


264  FALKNER. 

of  Falkner,  as  he  read  some  story  of  oppression,  and  felt, 
"  I  also  am  persecuted,  and  must  endure." 

In  this  position  they  each  grew  uimtterably  dear  to  the 
other — every  moment,  every  thought,  was  full  to  both  of 
the  image  of  either.  There  is  something  inexpressibly 
winning  in  beauty  and  grace — it  is  a  sweet  blessing  when 
our  household  companion  charms  our  senses  by  the  love- 
liness of  her  person,  and  makes  the  eye  gladly  turn  to  her, 
to  be  gratified  by  such  a  form  and  look  as  we  would  travel 
miles  to  see  depicted  on  canvass.  It  soothed  many  a  spasm 
of  pain,  and  turned  many  an  hour  of  suffering  into  placid 
content,  when  Falkner  watched  the  movements  of  his 
youthful  friend.  You  might  look  in  her  face  for  days,  and 
still  read  something  new,  something  sublime  in  the  holy 
calm  of  her  brow,  in  her  serious,  yet  intelligent  eyes ;  while 
all  a  woman's  softness  dwelt  in  the  moulding  of  her  cheeks 
and  her  dimpled  mouth.  Each  word  she  said,  and  all  she 
did,  so  became  her,  that  it  appeared  the  thing  best  to  be 
said  and  done — and  was  accompanied  by  a  fascination,  both 
for  eye  and  heart,  which  emanated  from  her  purity  and 
truth.  Falkner  grew  to  worship  the  very  thought  of  her. 
She  had  not  the  wild  spirits  and  trembling  sensibility  of  her 
he  had  destroyed,  but  in  her  kind  she  was  no  way  inferior. 

Yet  though  each,  as  it  were,  enjoyed  the  respite  given 
by  fortune  to  their  worst  fears,  yet  this  very  sense  of  tran- 
sitory security  was  in  its  essence  morbid  and  unnatural. 
A  fever  preyed  nightly  on  Falkner,  and  there  were  ghastly 
streaks  upon  his  brow  that  bespoke  internal  suffering  and 
decay.  Elizabeth  grew  paler  and  thinner — her  step  lost  ita 
elasticity,  her  voice  became  low-toned — her  eyes  were  ac- 
quainted with  frequent  tears,  and  the  lids  grew  heavy  and 
dark.  Both  lived  for  ever  in  the  presence  of  misery — they 
feared  to  move  or  speak,  lest  they  should  awaken  the  mon- 
ster, then  for  a  space  torpid ;  but  they  spent  their  days 
under  its  shadow — the  air  they  drew  was  chilled  by  its  icy 
influence — no  wholesome  liglit-liearted  mood  of  mind  was 
ever  theirs — they  might  pray  and  resign  themselves,  they 
might  congratulate  themselves  on  the  safety  of  the  passing 
moment;  but  each  sand  that  flowed  from  the  hourglass 
was  weighed — each  thought  that  passed  through  the  brain 
was  examined — every  word  uttered  was  pondered  over. 
They  were  exhausted  by  the  very  vividness  of  their  un- 
sleeping endeavours  to  blunt  their  sensations. 

The  hours  were  very  sad  that  they  spent  apart.  The 
door  closed  on  Elizabeth,  and  love,  and  hope,  and  all  the 
pride  of  life  vanished  with  her.  Falkner  was  again  a  pris- 
oner, an  accused  felon — a  man  over  whom  impended  the 
most  hideous  fate — whom  the  dogs  of  law  barked  round, 
and  looked  on  as  their  prey.  His  high  heart  often  quailed. 
He  laid  his  head  on  his  pillow,  desiring  never  again  to  raise 


FALKNER.  265 

it — despair  kept  his  lids  open  tlie  livelong  nights,  while 
naught  but  palpable  darkness  brooded  over  his  eyeballs ; 
he  rose  languid — dispirited — revolving  thoughts  of  death; 
till  at  last  she  came  who  by  degrees  dispelled  the  gloom, 
and  shed  over  his  benighted  soul  the  rays  of  her  pure  spirit. 

Slie  also  was  miserable  in  solitude ;  the  silent  evening 
hours  spent  apart  from  him  were  melancholy  and  drear. 
Nothing  interrupted  their  stillness.  She  felt  deserted  by 
every  human  being,  and  was  indeed  reduced  to  the  extrem- 
ity of  loneliness.  In  the  town  and  neighbourhood  many 
pitied,  many  admired  her,  and  some  offered  their  services ; 
but  none  visited  or  tried  to  cheer  the  soHtary  hours  of  the 
devoted  daughter.  As  the  child  of  a  man  accused  of  mur- 
der, there  was  a  barrier  between  her  and  the  world.  The 
English  are  generous  to  their  friends,  but  they  are  never 
kind  to  strangers ;  the  tie  of  brotherhood,  which  Christ 
tauglit  as  uniting  all  mankind,  is  unacknowledged  by  them. 
They  so  fear  that  their  sullen  fireside  should  be  unduly  in- 
vaded, and  so  expect  to  be  ill-treated,  that  each  man  makes 
a  Martello  tower  of  his  home,  and  keeps  watch  against  the 
gentler  charities  of  hfe,  as  from  an  invading  enemy.  Hour 
after  hour,  therefore.  Elizabeth  spent — thought  her  only 
companion. 

From  Falkner  and  his  miserable  fortunes,  sometimes  her 
reflections  strayed  to  Gerard  Neville — the  generous  friend 
on  whom  she  wholly  relied,  yet  who  could  in  no  way  aid 
or  comfort  her.  They  were  divided.  He  thought  of  her, 
she  knew  :  his  constant  and  ardent  disposition  would  cause 
her  to  be  for  ever  the  cherished  object  of  his  reveries ;  and 
now  and  then,  as  she  took  her  morning  ride,  or  looked  from 
her  casement  at  night  upon  the  high  stars,  and  pale,  still 
moon,  Nature  spoke  to  her  audibly  of  him,  and  her  soul 
overflowed  with  tenderness.  Still  he  was  far — no  word 
from  him  reached  her — no  token  of  living  remembrance. 
Lady  Cecil  also — she  neither  wrote  nor  sent.  The  sense 
of  abandonuieut  is  hard  to  bear,  and  many  bitter  tears  did 
the  young  sufferer  shed — and  many  a  yearning  had  she  to 
enter,  with  her  ill-starred  father,  the  silent  abode  of  the 
tomb — scarcely  more  still  or  dark  than  the  portion  of  life 
which  was  allotted  to  them,  even  while  existence  was  warm 
in  their  hearts,  and  the  natural  impulse  of  their  souls  was 
to  seek  sympathy  and  receive  consolation. 
23  M 


266  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

The  varied  train  of  hopes  and  fears  which  belonged  to  the 
situation  of  the  prisoner  and  his  faithful  young  companion, 
stood  for  some  time  suspended.  In  some  sort,  they  might 
be  said  neither  to  hope  nor  fear;  for,  reasoning  calmly,  they 
neither  expected  that  the  worst  would  befall ;  and  the  actual 
and  impending  evil  was  certain.  Like  shipwrecked  sailors, 
who  have  betaken  themselves  to  a  boat,  and  are  tossed  ifpon 
a  tempestuous  sea,  they  saw  a  ship  nearing ;  they  believed 
that  their  signal  was  seen,  and  that  it  was  bearing  down 
towards  them.  What  if,  with  sudden  tack,  the  disdainful 
vessel  should  turn  its  prow  aside,  and  leave  them  to  the 
mercy  of  the  waves.  They  did  not  anticipate  such  a  com- 
pletion to  their  disasters. 

Yet,  as  time  passed,  new  anxieties  occurred.  Falkner's 
solicitor,  Mr.  Colville,  had  despatched  an  agent  to  America  * 
to  bring  Osborne  over.  The  pardon  promised  ensured  his 
coming;  and  yet  it  was  impossible  not  to  feel  inquietude 
with  regard  to  his  arrival.  Falkner  experienced  least  of  this. 
He  felt  sure  of  Osborne,  his  creature  ;  the  being  whose  life 
he  had  heretofore  saved,  whose  fortunes  he  had  created. 
He  knew  his  weakness,  and  how  easily  he  was  dealt  with. 
The  mere  people  of  business  were  not  so  secure.  Osborne 
enjoyed  a  comfortable  existence,  far  from  danger — why 
should  he  come  over  to  place  himself  in  a  disgraceful  situa- 
tion, to  be  branded  as  a  pardoned  felon?  In  a  thousand 
ways  he  might  evade  the  summons.  Perhaps  there  was 
nothing  to  prove  that  the  Osborne  whom  Hoskins  named 
was  the  Osborne  who  had  been  employed  by  Falkner,  and 
was  deemed  an  accessory  in  Mrs.  Neville's  death. 

Hillary,  who  had  been  sent  to  Washington  in  September, 
had  written  immediately  on  his  arrival.  His  passage  had 
been  tedious,  as  autumnal  voyages  to  America  usually  are  ; 
he  did  not  arrive  till  the  last  day  of  October ;  he  announced 
that  Osborne  was  in  the  town,  and  that  on  the  morrow  he 
should  see  him.  This  letter  had  arrived  towards  the  end  of 
November,  and  there  was  no  reason  wherefore  Hillary  and 
Osborne  should  not  quickly  follow  it.  But  November  pass- 
ed away,  and  December  had  be):;uii,  and  still  the  voyagers 
did  not  arrive;  the  southwest  wind  continued  to  reign  with 
slight  variation  ;  except  tliat  as  winter  advanced  it  became 
more  violent:  packets  perpetually  arrived  in  Liverpool  from 
America,  after  passages  of  seventeen  and  twenty  days  ;  but 
Hillary  did  not  return,  nor  did  he  write. 

The  woods  were  despoiled  of  their  leaves ;  but  still  the 


FALKNER.  267 

air  was  warm  and  pleasant ;  and  it  cheered  Elizabeth,  as 
favourable  to  her  hopes  :  the  sun  shown  at  intervals,  and  the 
misty  mornings  were  replaced  by  cheerful  days.  Elizabeth 
rode  out  each  morning,  and  this  one  day,  the  sixteenth  of 
December,  she  found  a  new  pleasure  in  her  solitary  exer- 
cise. The  weather  was  calm  and  cheerful;  a  brisk  canter 
gave  speed  to  the  current  of  her  blood  ;  and  her  thoughts, 
though  busy,  had  a  charm  in  them  that  she  was  half  angry  with 
herself  for  feeling,  but  which  glowed  all  warm  and  bright,  de- 
spite every  effort.  On  the  preceding  evening  she  had  observ- 
ed on  her  return  home  at  nine  o'clock  from  the  prison,  the 
figure  of  a  man,  which  passed  her  hastily,  and  then  stood 
aloof,  as  if  guarding  and  watching  her  at  a  distance.  Once, 
as  he  stood  under  an  archway,  a  flickering  lamp  threw  his 
shadow  across  her  path.  It  was  a  bright  moonhght  night,  and 
as  he  stood  in  the  midst  of  an  open  space,  near  which  her 
house  was  situated,  she  recognised,  inuffled  as  he  was,  the 
form  of  Gerard  Neville.  No  wonder,  then,  that  her  heart  was 
lightened  of  its  burden  ;  he  had  not  forgotten  her — he  could 
no  longer  command  himself  to  absence  ;  if  he  might  not  con- 
verse with  her,  at  least  he  might  look  upon  her  as  she  passed. 

On  the  same  morning  she  entered  her  father's  prison-room 
— she  found  two  visiters  already  there,  Colville  and  his  agent, 
Hillary.  The  faces  of  both  were  long  and  serious.  Eliza- 
beth turned  anxiously  to  Falkner,  who  looked  stern  and  dis- 
dainful. He  smiled  when  he  saw  her,  and  said,  "You  must 
not  be  shocked,  my  love,  at  the  news  which  these  gentle- 
men bring.  I  cannot  tell  how  far  it  influences  my  fate;  but 
it  is  impossible  to  believe  that  it  is  irrevocably  sealed  by  it. 
But  who  can  express  the  scorn  that  a  man  must  feel,  to 
know  that  so  abject  a  poltron  wears  the  human  form.  Os- 
borne refuses  to  come." 

Such  an  announcement  naturally  filled  her  with  dismay. 
At  the  request  of  Falkner,  Hillary  began  again  to  relate  the 
circumstances  of  his  visit  to  America.  He  recounted,  that 
finding  that  Osborne  was  in  Washington,  he  lost  no  time  in 
securing  an  interview.  He  delivered  his  letters  to  him,  and 
said  that  he  came  from  Mr.  Falkner,  on  an  affair  of  life  and 
death.  At  the  name,  Osborne  turned  pale  ;  he  seemed  afraid 
of  opening  the  letters,  and  muttered  something  about  there 
being  a  mistake.  At  length  he  broke  the  seals.  Fear,  in 
its  most  abject  guise,  blanched  his  cheek  as  he  read,  and  his 
hand  trembled  so  that  he  could  scarcely  hold  the  paper. 
Hillary,  perceiving  at  last  that  he  had  finished  reading,  and 
was  hesitating  what  to  say.  began  himself  to  enter  on  the 
subject ;  when,  faltering  and  stammering,  Osborne  threw  the 
letter  down,  saying,  "  I  said  there  was  a  mistake — 1  know 
nothing — all  this  affair  is  new  to  me — I  never  had  concern 
with  Mr.  Falkner — I  do  not  know  who  Mr.  Falkner  is." 

But  for  the  pale  quivering  lips  of  the  man,  and  his  tremu- 
M3 


268  FALKNER. 

lous  voice,  Hillary  might  have  thought  that  he  spoke  truth ; 
but  he  saw  that  cowardice  was  the  occasion  of  the  lie  he 
told,  and  he  endeavoured  to  set  before  him  the  perfect  safe- 
ty with  which  he  might  comply  with  the  request  he  con- 
veyed. But  the  more  he  said,  Osborne,  gathering  assurance, 
the  more  obstinately  denied  all  knowledge  of  the  trans- 
actions in  question,  or  their  principal  actor.  He  changed, 
warmed  by  his  own  words,  from  timid  to  impudent,  in  his 
denials,  till  Hillary's  conviction  began  to  be  shaken  a  little; 
and  at  the  same  time  he  grew  angry,  and  cross-questioned 
him,  with  a  lawyer's  art,  about  his  arrival  in  America ;  ques- 
tions which  Osborne  answered  with  evident  trepidation. 
At  last,  he  asked  him  if  he  remembered  such  and  such  a 
house,  and  such  a  journey,  and  the  name  of  his  companion 
on  the  occasion  ;  and  if  he  recollected  a  person  of  the  name 
of  Hoskins.  Osborne  started  at  the  word  as  if  he  had  been 
shot.  Pale  he  was  before,  but  now  his  cheeks  grew  of  a 
chalky  white,  his  limbs  refused  to  support  him,  and  his  voice 
died  away ;  till,  rousing  himself,  he  pretended  to  fly  into  a 
violent  passion  at  the  insolence  of  the  intrusion  and  miper- 
tinence  of  the  question^.  As  he  spoke,  he  unwarily  betray- 
ed that  he  knew  more  of  the  transaction  tlian  he  would  wil- 
lingly have  allowed;  at  last,  after  running  on  angrily  and 
incoherently  for  some  time,  he  suddenly  broke  away,  and 
(they  were  at  a  tavern)  left  the  room,  and  also  the  house. 

Hillary  hoped  that,  on  deliberation,  he  would  come  to  his 
senses.  He  sent  the  letters  after  him  to  his  house,  and 
called  the  next  day ;  but  he  was  gone  ;  he  had  left  Wash- 
ington the  evening  before,  by  the  steamer  to  Charles- 
town.  Hillary  knew  not  what  to  do.  He  applied  to  the 
government  authorities;  they  could  afford  him  no  help.  He 
also  repaired  to  Charlestown.  Some  time  he  spent  in 
searching  for  Osborne — vainly ;  it  appeared  plain  that  he 
travelled  under  another  name.  At  length,  by  chance,  he 
found  a  person  who  knew  him  personall5%  ^^o  said  that  he 
had  departed  a  week  before  for  New-Orleans.  It  seemed 
useless  to  make  this  further  journey,  yet  Hillary  made  it, 
and  with  like  ill-success.  Whether  Osborne  was  concealed 
in  that  town  ;  whether  he  had  gone  to  Mexico,  or  lurked  in 
the  neighbouring  country,  could  not  be  discovered.  Time 
wore  away  in  fruitless  researches,  and  it  became  necessary 
to  come  to  a  decision.  Hopeless  of  success,  Hillary  thought 
it  best  to  return  to  f]ngland — with  the  account  of  his  failure 
— so  that  no  time  might  be  lost  in  providing  a  remedy,  if 
any  could  be  found,  to  so  fatal  an  injury  to  their  cause. 

While  this  tale  was  being  told,  Falkner  had  leisure  to 
recover  from  that  boiling  of  the  blood  which  the  first  ap- 
prehension of  unworthy  conduct  in  one  of  our  fellow-crea- 
tures is  apt  to  excite,  and  now  spoke  with  his  usual  com- 
posure.    "  I  cannot  beheve,"  he  said,  ''  that  this  man's  evi- 


FALKNER.  269 

dence  is  of  the  import  which  is  supposed.  No  one,  ia 
fact,  believes  that  I  am  a  murderer;  every  one  knows  that 
I  am  innocent.  All  that  we  have  to  do  is  to  prove  this  in 
a  sort  of  technical  and  legal  manner ;  and  yet  hardly  that 
— for  we  are  not  to  address  the  deaf  ear  of  law,  but  the 
common  sense  of  twelve  men,  who  will  not  be  slow,  I  feel 
assured,  in  recognising  the  truth.  All  that  can  be  done  to 
make  my  story  plain,  and  to  prove  it  by  circumstances,  of 
course  must  be  done ;  and  I  do  not  fear  but  that,  when  it  is 
ingenuously  and  simply  told,  it  will  suffice  for  my  acquittal." 

"  It  is  right  to  hope  for  the  best,"  said  Mr.  Colville ;  "  but 
Osborne's  refusal  to  come  is,  in  itself,  a  bad  fact ;  the  pros- 
ecutor will  insist  much  upon  it — I  would  give  a  hundred 
pounds  to  have  him  here." 

"  I  would  not  give  a  hundred  pence,"  said  Falkner,  dryly. 

The  other  stared — the  observation  had  an  evil  effect  on 
his  mind  ;  he  fancied  that  his  client  was  even  glad  that  a 
witness  so  material  refused  to  appear,  and  this  to  him  had 
the  aspect  of  guilt.  He  continued,  "  I  am  so  far  of  a  dif- 
ferent opinion,  that  I  should  advise  sending  a  second  time. 
Had  you  a  friend  sufficiently  zealous  to  undertake  a  voyage 
across  the  Atlantic  for  the  purpose  of  persuading  Os- 
borne— " 

"  I  would  not  ask  him  to  cross  a  ditch  for  the  purpose," 
interrupted  Falkner,  with  some  asperity.  "  Let  such  men 
as  would  believe  a  dastard  like  Osborne  in  preference  to  a 
gentleman  and  a  soldier,  take  my  life,  if  they  will.  It  is 
not  worth  this  pains  in  my  own  eyes — and  thirsted  for 
by  my  fellow-men,  it  is  a  burden  I  would  willingly  lay 
down." 

The  soft  touch  of  Elizabeth's  hand  placed  on  his  recalled 
liim — he  looked  on  her  tearful  eyes,  and  became  aware  of 
his  fault — he  smiled  to  comfort  her.  "  I  ought  to  apologize 
to  these  gentlemen  for  my  hastiness,"  he  said,  "  and  to 
you,  my  dear  girl,  for  my  apparent  trifling — but  there  is  a 
degradation  in  these  details  that  might  chafe  a  more  placid 
temper.  I  cannot,  I  will  not  descend  to  beg  my  life  ;  I  am 
innocent ;  this  all  men  must  know,  or  at  least  will  know, 
when  their  passions  are  no  longer  in  excitement  against  me 
— I  can  say  no  more — I  cannot  win  an  angel  from  heaven 
to  avouch  my  guiltlessness  of  her  blood — I  cannot  draw 
this  miserable  fellow  from  his  cherished  refuge.  All  must 
fall  on  my  own  shoulders — 1  must  support  the  burden  of 
my  fate ;  I  shall  appear  before  my  judges ;  if  they,  seeing 
me,  and  hearing  me  speak,  yet  pronounce  me  guilty,  let 
them  look  to  it — I  shall  be  satisfied  to  die,  so  to  quit  at 
once  a  blind,  bloodthirsty  world!" 

The  dignity   of  Falkner  as  he  spoke  these  words,  the 
high,  disdainful,  yet  magnanimous  expression  of  his   fea- 
tm-es,  the  clear  though  impassioned   tone  of  his  voice, 
23* 


270  PALKNER. 

thrilled  the  hearts  of  all.  "  Thank  God,  I  do  love  this  man 
even  as  he  deserves  to  be  loved,"  was  the  tender  sentiment 
that  lighted  up  Elizabeth's  eyes;  Mobile  his  male  auditors 
could  not  help,  both  by  countenance  and  voice,  giving  token 
that  they  were  deeply  moved.  On  taking  their  leave  soon 
after,  Mr.  Colville  grasped  Falkner's  hand  cordially,  and 
bade  him  rest  assured  that  his  zeal,  his  utmost  endeavours 
should  not  be  wanting  to  serve  him.  "  And,"  he  added,  in 
obedience  rather  to  his  newly-awakened  interest  than  his 
judgment,  "  I  cannot  doubt  but  that  our  endeavours  will  be 
crowned  with  complete  success." 

A  man  of  real  courage  always  finds  new  strength  vmfold 
within  him  to  meet  a  larger  demand  made  upon  it.  Falkner 
was  now,  perhaps,  for  the  first  time,  thoroughly  roused  to 
meet  the  evils  of  his  lot.  He  threw  off  every  natural, 
every  morbid  sensibility,  and  strung  himself  at  once  to  a 
higher  and  firmer  tone  of  mind.  He  renounced  the  brittle 
hopes  before  held  out  to  him — of  this  or  that  circumstance 
being  in  his  favour — he  intrusted  unreservedly  his  whole 
cause  to  the  miglity  irresistible  Power  who  niles  human  af- 
fairs, and  felt  calm  and  free.  If  by  disgrace  and  death  he 
were  to  atone  for  the  destruction  of  his  victim,  so  let  it  be — 
the  hour  of  suffering  would  come,  and  it  would  pass  away — and 
leaving  him  a  corpse,  the  vengeance  of  his  fellow-creatures 
would  end  there.  He  felt  that  the  decree  for  life  or  death 
having  received  already  the  irrefragable  fiat — he  was  pre- 
pared for  both ;  and  he  resolved  from  that  hour  to  drive  all 
weak  emotions,  all  struggle,  all  hope  or  fear  from  his  soul. 
"  Let  God's  will  be  done!"  sometlung  of  Christian  resigna- 
tion— something  (derived  from  his  Eastern  life)  of  belief  in 
fatality — and  something  of  philosophic  fortitude,  composed 
the  feeling  that  engraved  this  sentiment  in  his  heart  in  in- 
effaceable characters. 

He  now  spoke  of  Osborne  to  Elizabeth  without  acrimony. 
"  My  indignation  against  that  man  was  all  thrown  away," 
he  said ;  "  we  do  not  rebuke  the  elements  when  they  de- 
stroy us,  and  why  should  we  spend  our  anger  against  men  ? 
— a  word  from  Osborne,  they  say,  would  save  me — the  fal- 
ling of  the  wind,  or  the  allaying  of  the  waves,  would  have 
saved  Alithea — both  are  beyond  our  control.  I  imagined 
in  those  days  tbat  I  could  guide  events — till  suddenly  the 
reins  were  torn  from  my  hands.  A  few  months  ago  I  ex- 
ulted, in  expectation  that  the  penalty  demanded  for  my 
crime  would  be  the  falling  by  the  hands  of  her  son — and 
here  I  am  an  imprisoned  felon! — and  now  we  fancy  that 
this  thing  or  that  might  preserve  me  ;  while  in  truth  all  is 
decreed,  all  registered,  and  we  must  patiently  await  the  ap- 
pointed time.  Come  wluit  may,  I  am  prepared — I'rom  this 
hour  I  have  taught  my  spirit  to  bend,  and  to  be  content  to 
die.    When  all  is  over,  men  will  do  me  justice,  and  that 


FALKNEU.  .j^    271 

poor  follow  will  bitterly  lament  his  cowardice.  It  will  be 
agony  to  him  to  remember  that  one  word  would  have  pre- 
served my  life  then,  when  no  power  on  earth  can  recall  me 
to  existence.  He  is  not  a  bad  man — and  could  he  now  have 
represented  to  him  his  after  remorse,  he  would  cease  to 
exliibit  such  lamentable  cowardice — a  cowardice,  after  all, 
that  has  its  origin  in  the  remnants  of  good  feeling.  The 
fear  of  shame ;  horror  at  having  participated  in  so  fearful  a 
tragedy  ;  and  a  desire  to  throw  oft'  the  consequences  of  his 
actions,  which  is  the  perpetual  and  stinging  accompaniment 
of  guilt,  form  his  motives ;  but  could  he  be  told  how  im- 
measurably his  sense  of  guilt  will  be  increased  if  his  si- 
lence occasions  my  death,  all  these  would  become  minor 
considerations,  and  vanish  on  the  instant." 

"  And  would  it  be  impossible,"  said  Elizabeth,  "  to  awa- 
ken this  feeling  in  him  !" 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Falkner ;  "  though  it  is  out  of 
our  power.  We  sent  a  mercenary,  not  indeed  altogether 
lukewarm,  but  still  not  penetrated  by  that  ardour,  nor  ca- 
pable of  that  eloquence,  which  is  necessary  to  move  a  weak 
man,  like  the  one  he  had  to  deal  with.  Osborne  is,  in  some 
sort,  a  villain  ;  but  he  is  too  feeble-minded  to  follow  out  his 
vocation.  He  ahvays  desired  to  be  honest.  Now  he  has 
the  reputation  of  being  such ;  from  being  one  of  those  mis- 
erable creatures,  the  refuse  of  civilization,  preying  upon 
the  vices,  while  they  are  the'  outcasts  of  society,  he  has 
become  respectable  and  trustworthy  in  the  eyes  of  others. 
He  very  naturally  clings  to  advantages  dearly  earned — 
lately  gained.  He  fancies  to  preserve  them  by  deserting 
me.  Could  the  veil  be  lifted — could  the  conviction  be  im- 
parted of  the  wretch  he  will  become  in  his  own  eyes,  and 
of  the  universal  execration  that  will  be  heaped  on  him  after 
my  death,  his  mind  would  entirely  change,  and  he  would 
be  as  eager,  I  had  almost  said,  to  come  forward,  as  now  he 
is  set  upon  concealment  and  silence." 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Elizabeth  listened  in  silence.  All  that  had  passed  made 
a  deep  impression — from  the  moment  that  the  solicitor  had 
expressed  a  wish  that  Falkner  had  a  zealous  friend  to  cross 
the  Atlantic — till  now,  that  he  himself  dilated  on  the  good 
that  would  result  from  representations  being  clearly  and  fer- 
vently made  to  Osborne,  she  was  revolving  an  idea  that  ab- 
sorbed her  whole  faculties. 

This  idea  was  no  other  than  going  to  America  herself. 


'^^^^9BL  FALKNER. 

She  had  no  doubt  that,  seeing  Osborne,  she  could  persuade 
him,  and  the  difficulties  of  the  journey  appeared  slight  to 
her  who  had  travelled  so  much.  She  asked  Falkner  many 
questions,  and  his  answers  confirmed  her  more  and  more 
in  her  plan.  No  objection  presented  itself  to  her  mmd;  al- 
ready she  felt  sure  of  success.  There  was  scarcely  time,  it 
was  true,  for  the  voyage  ;  but  she  hoped  that  the  trial  might 
be  again  deferred,  if  reasonable  hopes  were  held  out  of  Os- 
borne's ultimate  arrival.  It  was  painful  to  leave  Falkner 
without  a  friend,  but  the  object  of  her  journey  was  para- 
mount even  to  this  consideration ;  but  it  must,  it  should  be 
undertaken.  Still  she  said  nothing  of  her  scheme,  and  Falk- 
ner could  not  guess  at  what  was  passing  in  her  mind. 

Wrapped  in  the  revery  suggested  by  such  a  plan,  she  re- 
turned home  in  the  evening,  without  thinking  of  the  appari- 
tion of  Neville,  which  had  so  filled  her  mind  in  the  morning. 
It  was  not  till  at  her  own  door  that  the  thought  glanced 
through  her  mind,  and  she  remembered  that  she  had  seen 
nothing  of  him — she  looked  across  the  open  space  where 
he  had  stood  the  evening  before.  It  was  entirely  vacant. 
She  felt  disappointed  and  saddened  ;  and  she  began  to  re- 
flect on  her  total  friendlessness — no  one  to  aid  her  in  prep- 
arations for  her  voyage — none  to  advise — her  sole  resource 
was  in  hirelings.  But  her  independent,  firm  spirit  quickly 
threw  off  this  weakness,  and  she  began  a  note  to  Mr.  Col- 
ville,  asking  him  to  call  on  her,  as  she  wished  to  arrange 
everything  definitively  before  she  spoke  to  Falkner.  As  she 
wrote,  she  heard  a  rapid,  decided  step  in  her  quiet  street, 
followed  by  a  hurried  yet  gentle  knock  at  her  door.  She 
started  up.  "  It  is  he  !"  the  words  were  on  her  lips,  when 
Gerard  entered ;  she  held  out  her  hand,  gladness  thrilling 
through  her  whole  frame,  her  heart  throbbing  wildly — her 
eyes  lighted  up  with  joy.  "  This  is  indeed  kind,"  she  cried. 
"  Oh,  Mr.  Neville,  how  happy  your  visit  makes  me  !" 

He  did  not  look  happy ;  he  had  grown  paler  and  thinner, 
and  the  melancholy  which  had  sat  on  his  countenance  be- 
fore, banished  for  a  time  by  her,  had  returned,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  a  look  of  wildness,  that  reminded  her  of  the  youth 
of  Baden ;  Elizabeth  was  shocked  to  remark  these  traces  of 
suffering ;  and  her  next  impulse  was  to  ask,  "  What  has 
happened?    I  fear  some  new  misfortune  has  occurred." 

"  It  is  the  property  of  misfortune  to  be  ever  new,"  he  re- 
plied, "to  be  always  producing  fresh  and  more  miserable 
results.  I  have  no  right  to  press  my  feelings  on  you ;  your 
burden  is  sufficient ;  but  I  could  not  refrain  any  longer  from 
seeing  in  what  way  adversity  had  exerted  its  pernicious  in- 
fluence over  you." 

His  manner  was  gloomy  and  agitated ;  she,  resigned,  de- 
voted to  her  duties  ;  commanding  herself,  day  by  day,  to  ful- 
fil her  task  of  patience,  and  of  acquiring  cheerfulness  for 


PALKNER.  273 

Falkner's  sake ;  she  imagined  that  some  fresh  disaster  must 
be  the  occasion  of  these  marks  of  emotion.  She  did  not 
know  tliat  fruitless  struggles  to  alleviate  the  evils  of  her  sit- 
uation, vain  broodings  over  its  horrors,  and  bitter  regret  at 
losing  her,  had  robbed  him  of  sleep,  of  appetite,  of  all  re- 
pose. "  I  despise  myself  for  my  weakness,"  he  said,  "  when 
I  see  your  fortitude.  You  are  more  than  woman,  more  than 
human  being  ever  was,  and  you  must  feel  the  utmost  con- 
tempt for  one  whom  fortune  bends  and  breaks  as  it  does 
me.  You  are  well,  however,  and  half  my  dreams  of  misery 
have  been  false  and  vain.  God  guards  and  preserves  you  : 
I  ought  to  have  placed  more  faith  in  him." 

"  But  tell  me,  dear  Mr.  Neville,  tell  me,  what  has  hap- 
pened ]" 

"  Nothing !"  he  replied ;  "  and  does  not  that  imply  the 
worst  ]  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to  endure  the  visitation 
of  ill  fallen  upon  us  ;  it  drives  me  from  place  to  place  like 
an  unlaid  ghost.  I  am  very  selfish  to  speak  in  this  manner. 
Yet  it  is  your  sufferings  that  fill  my  mind  to  bursting ;  were 
all  the  evil  poured  on  my  own  head,  while  you  were  spared, 
welcome,  most  welcome  would  be  the  bitterest  infliction ! 
but  you,  Elizabeth,  you  are  my  cruel  father's  victim,  and  the 
future  will  be  more  hideous  than  the  hideous  present!" 

Elizabeth  was  shocked  and  surprised ;  what  could  he 
mean  1  •'  The  future,"  she  replied,  "  will  bring  my  dear  fa- 
ther's liberation ;  how  then  can  that  be  so  bad  !" 

He  looked  earnestly  and  inquiringly  on  her.  "  Yes,"  she 
continued,  "  my  sorrows,  heavy  as  they  are,  have  not  that 
additional  pang ;  I  have  no  doubt  of  the  vdtimate  justice  that 
will  be  rendered  my  father.  We  have  much  to  endure  in 
the  interim,  much  that  undermines  the  fortitude  and  visits 
the  heart  with  sickening  throes ;  there  is  no  help  but  pa- 
tience ;  let  us  have  patience,  and  this  adversity  will  pass 
awa)' ;  the  prison  and  the  trial  will  be  over,  and  freedom  and 
security  again  be  ours." 

'•  I  see  how  it  is,"  replied  Neville ;  "  we  each  live  in  a 
world  of  our  own,  and  it  is  wicked  in  me  to  give  you  a 
glimpse  of  the  scene  as  it  is  presented  to  me." 

"  Yet  speak  ;  explain  !"  said  Elizabeth ;  "  you  have  fright- 
ened me  so  much  that  any  explanation  must  be  better  than 
the  thoughts  which  your  words,  your  manner,  suggest." 

"NajV'said  Neville,  "do  not  let  my  follies  infect  you. 
Your  views,  your  hopes,  are  doubtless  founded  on  reason. 
It  is,  if  you  will  forgive  the  allusion  that  may  seem  too  light 
for  so  sad  a  subject,  but  the  old  story  of  the  silver  and  bra- 
zen shield.  I  see  the  dark,  the  fearful  side  of  things  ;  I  live 
among  your  enemies — that  is,  the  enemies  of  Mr.  Falkner. 
I  hear  of  notliing  but  his  guilt,  and  the  expiation  prepared 
for  it.     I  am  maddened  by  all  I  hear. 

"  I  have  implored  my  father  not  to  pursue  his  vengeance- 
M  3 


274  PALKNER. 

Convinced  as  I  am  of  the  truth  of  Mr.  Falkner's  narration, 
the  idea  that  one  so  gifted  should  be  made  over  to  the  fate 
that  awaits  him  is  abhorrent ;  and  when  I  think  that  you 
are  involved  in  such  a  scene  of  wrong  and  horror,  my  blood 
freezes  in  my  veins.  I  have  implored  my  father,  I  have 
quarrelled  with  him,  I  have  made  Sophia  advocate  the  cause 
of  justice  against  malice ;  all  in  vain.  Could  you  see  the 
old  man — my  father  I  mean  ;  pardon  my  irreverence — how 
he  revels  in  the  demoniacal  hope  of  revenge,  and  with  what 
hideous  delight  he  gloats  upon  the  detail  of  ignominy  to  be 
inflicted  on  one  so  much  his  superior  in  every  noble  quality, 
you  would  feel  the  loathing  I  do.  He  heaps  sarcasm  and 
contempt  on  my  feeble  spirit,  as  he  names  my  pardon  of 
my  motlicr's  destroyer,  my  esteem  for  him,  and  my  sym- 
pathy for  you  ;  but  that  does  not  touch  me.  It  is  the  knowl- 
edge that  he  will  succeed,  and  you  be  lost  and  miserable 
for  ever,  that  drives  me  to  desperation. 

"  I  fancied  that  these  thoughts  must  pursue  you  even 
more  painfully  than  they  do  me.  I  saw  you  writhing  be- 
neath the  tortures  of  despair,  wasting  away  under  the  in- 
fluence of  intense  misery.  You  haunted  my  dreams,  ac- 
companied by  every  image  of  horror — sometimes  you  were 
bleeding,  ghastly,  dying — sometimes  you  took  my  poor 
mother's  form,  as  Falkner  describes  it,  snatched  cold  and 
pale  from  the  waves — other  visions  flitted  by,  still  more 
frightful.'  Despairing  of  moving  my  father,  abhorring  the 
society  of  every  human  being,  I  have  been  living  for  the 
last  month  at  Dromore.  A  few  days  ago  my  father  arrived 
there.  I  wondered  till  I  heard  the  cause.  The  time  for 
expecting  Osborne  had  arrived.  As  vultures  have  instinct 
for  carrion,  so  he  swooped  down  at  the  far  off  scent  of  evil 
fortune  ;  he  had  an  emissary  at  Liverpool,  on  the  watch  to 
hear  of  this  man's  arrival.  Disgusted  at  this  foul  appetite 
for  evil,  I  left  him.  I  came  here — only  to  see  you,  to  gaze 
on  you  afar,  was  to  purify  the  world  of  the  '  blasts  from 
heir  which  the  bad  passions  I  have  so  long  contemplated 
spread  round  me.  My  father  learned  whitlier  I  had  gone ; 
I  had  a  letter  from  him  this  morning — you  may  guess  at  its 
contents." 

"  He  triumphs  in  Osborne's  refusal  to  appear,"  said  Eliz- 
abeth, who  was  much  moved  by  the  picture  of  hatred  and 
malice  Neville  had  presented  to  her;  and  trembled  from 
head  to  foot  as  she  listened,  from  the  violent  emotions  his 
account  excited,  and  the  vehemence  of  his  manner  as  he 
spoke. 

"  He  does  indeed  triumph,"  replied  Neville  ;  "  and  you — 
you  and  Mr.  Falkner,  do  you  not  despair  I" 

"  If  you  could  see  my  dear  father,"  said  Elizabeth,  her 
courage  returning  at  the  thought,  "  you  would  see  how  in- 
nocence and  a  noble  mind  can  sustain ;  at  the  worst,  he 


FALKNER.  275 

does  not  despair.  He  bears  the  present  with  fortitude,  he 
looks  to  the  future  with  resignation.  His  soul  is  firm,  his 
spirit  inflexible." 

"  And  you  share  these  feelings  V 

"  Partly  I  do,  and  partly  I  have  other  thoughts  to  support 
me.  Osborne's  cowardice  is  a  grievous  blow,  but  it  must 
be  remedie;!.  The  man  we  sent  to  bring  him  was  too  easily 
discouraged.  Other  means  must  be  tried.  I  shall  go  to 
America,  I  shall  see  Osborne,  and  you  cannot  doubt  of  my 
success." 

"  You  V  cried  Neville  ;  "you  to  go  to  America  1  you  to 
follow  the  traces  of  a  man  who  hides  himself!  Impossible  ! 
This  is  worse  madness  than  all.  Does  Falkner  consent  to 
so  senseless  an  expedition  1" 

"  You  use  strong  expressions,"  interrupted  Elizabeth. 

"  I  do,"  he  replied ;  "  and  I  have  a  right  to  do  so — I  beg 
your  pardon.  But  my  meaning  is  justifiable — you  must  not 
undertake  this  voyage.  It  is  as  useless  as  improper.  Sup- 
pose yourself  arrived  on  the  shores  of  wide  America.  You 
seek  a  man  wiio  conceals  himself,  you  know  not  w^here : 
can  you  perambulate  large  cities,  cross  v^ride  extents  of 
country,  go  from  town  to  town  in  search  of  him  ?  It  is  by 
personal  exertion  alone  that  he  can  be  found;  and  your  age 
and  sex  wholly  prevent  that." 

"  Yet  I  shall  go,"  said  Elizabeth,  thoughtfully  ;  "  so  much 
is  left  undone,  because  we  fancy  it  impossible  to  do  ;  which, 
upon  endeavour,  is  found  plain  and  easy.  If  insurmountable 
obstacles  oppose  themselves,  I  must  submit,  but  I  see  none 
yet ;  I  have  not  the  common  fears  of  a  person  whose  life 
has  been  spent  in  one  spot ;  I  have  been  a  traveller,  and 
know  that,  but  for  the  fatigue,  it  is  as  easj^  to  go  a  thousand 
miles  as  a  hundred.  If  there  are  dangers  and  difficulties, 
they  will  appear  light  to  me,  encountered  for  my  dear 
father's  sake." 

She  looked  beautiful  as  an  angel  as  she  spoke  ;  her  inde- 
pendent spirit  had  nothing  rough  in  its  texture.  It  did  not 
arise  from  a  love  of  opposition,  but  from  a  belief  that,  in 
fulfilling  a  duty,  she  could  not  be  opposed  or  injured.  Her 
fearlessness  was  that  of  a  generous  heart,  that  could  not 
believe  in  evil  intentions.  She  explained  more  fully  to  her 
friend  the  reasons  that  induced  her  determination.  She  re- 
peated Falkner's  account  of  Osborne's  character,  the  injury 
that  it  was  believed  would  arise  from  his  refusal  to  appear, 
and  the  probable  facility  of  persuading  him.  were  he  ad- 
dressed by  one  zealous  in  the  cause. 

Neville  listened  attentively.  She  paused — he  was  lost  in 
thought,  and  made  no  reply — she  continued  to  speak,  but 
he  continued  mute,  till  at  last  she  said,  "  You  are  conquered, 
I  know — you  yield,  and  "agree  that  my  journey  is  a  duty,  a 
necessity." 


276  FALKNER. 

"We  are  both  apt,  it  would  seem,"  he  replied,  "  to  see 
our  duties  in  a  strong  light,  and  to  make  sudden,  or  they 
may  be  called  rash,  resolutions.  Perhaps  we  both  go  too 
far,'  and  are  in  consequence  reprehended  by  those  about  us  : 
in  each  other,  then,  let  us  find  approval — you  must  not  go 
to  America,  for  your  going  would  be  useless — with  all  your 
zeal  you  could  not  succeed.  But  I  will  go.  Of  course  this 
act  will  be  treated  as  madness,  or  worse,  by  Sir  Boyvill  and 
the  rest — but  my  own  mind  assures  me  that  I  do  right. 
For  many  years  I  devoted  myself  to  discovering  my  mother's 
fate.  I  have  discovered  it.  Falkner's  narrative  tells  all. 
But  clear  and  satisfactory  as  that  is  to  me,  others  choose 
to  cast  frightful  doubts  over  its  truth,  and  conjure  up  images 
the  most  revolting.  Have  they  any  foundation  1  I  do  not 
believe  it — but  many  do — and  all  assert  that  the  approach- 
ing trial  alone  can  establish  the  truth.  This  trial  is  but  a 
mockery,  unless  it  is  fair  and  complete — it  cannot  be  that 
without  Osborne.  Surely,  then,  it  neither  misbecomes  me 
as  her  son,  nor  as  the  son  of  Sir  Boyvill,  to  undertake  any 
action  that  will  tend  to  clear  up  the  mystery. 

"  I  am  resolved — I  shall  go — be  assured  that  I  shall  not 
return  without  Osborne.  You  will  allow  me  to  take  your 
place,  to  act  for  you — you  do  not  distrust  my  zeal  V 

P^lizabeth  had  regarded  her  own  resolves  as  the  simple 
dictates  of  reason  and  duty.  But  her  heart  was  deeply 
touched  by  Neville's  offer ;  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes  as 
she  replied,  in  a  voice  faltering  with  emotion,  "I  fear  this 
cannot  be ;  it  will  meet  with  too  much  opposition  ;  but 
never,  never  can  I  repay  your  generosity  in  but  imagining 
so  great  a  service." 

"  It  is  a  service  to  both,"  he  said  ;  "  and  as  to  the  opposi- 
tion I  shall  meet,  that  is  my  affair.  You  know  that  nothing 
will  stop  me  when  once  resolved.  And  I  am  resolved.  The 
inner  voice  that  cannot  be  mistaken  assures  me  that  I  do 
right — I  ask  no  other  approval.  A  sense  of  justice,  per- 
haps of  compassion,  for  the  original  author  of  all  our 
wretchedness,  ought  probably  to  move  me ;  but  I  W'ill  not 
pretend  to  be  better  than  I  am  ;  were  Falkner  alone  con- 
cerned, I  fear  I  should  be  lukewarm.  But  not  one  cloud, 
nor  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  shall  rest  on  my  mother's  fate. 
All  shall  be  clear,  all  universally  acknowledged ;  nor  shall 
your  life  be  blotted  and  your  heart  broken  by  the  wretch- 
ed fate  of  him  to  whom  you  cling  with  matchless  fidel- 
ity. He  is  innocent,  I  know;  but  if  the  world  thinks  and 
acts  by  him  as  a  murderer,  how  could  you  look  up  again  1 
Through  you  I  succeeded  in  my  task ;  to  you  I  owe  un- 
speakable gratitude,  which  it  is  my  duty  to  repay.  Yet, 
away  with  such  expressions.  You  know  that  my  desire  to 
serve  you  is  boundless  ;  that  I  love  you  beyond  expression ; 
that  every  injury  you  receive  is  trebled  upon  me — that  vain 


FALKNER.  277 

were  every  effort  of  self-command  ;  I  must  do  that  thing 
that  would  benefit  you,  though  the  whole  world  rose  to  for- 
bid. You  are  of  more  worth  in  your  innocence  and  noble- 
ness, than  a  nation  of  men  such  as  my  father.  Do  you 
think  I  can  hesitate  in  my  determinations  thus  founded,  thus 
impelled  ?" 

More  vehement,  more  impassioned  than  Elizabeth,  Ne- 
ville bore  down  her  objections,  while  he  awakened  all  her 
tenderness  and  gratitude :  "  Now  I  prove  myself  your 
friend,"  he  said,  proudly  ;  "  now  Heaven  affords  me  oppor- 
tunity to  serve  you,  and  I  thank  it." 

He  looked  so  happy,  so  wildly  delighted,  while  a  more 
still  but  not  less  earnest  sense  of  joy  filled  her  heart.  They 
were  young,  and  they  loved — this  of  itself  was  bliss ;  but 
the  cruel  circumstances  around  them  added  to  their  happi- 
ness by  drawing  them  closer  together,  and  giving  fervour 
and  confidence  to  their  attachment ;  and  now  that  he  saw  a 
mode  of  serving  her,  and  she  felt  entire  reliance  on  his  ef- 
forts, the  last  veil  and  barrier  fell  from  between  them,  and 
their  hearts  became  united  by  that  perfect  love  which  caii 
result  alone  from  entire  confidence  and  acknowledged  un- 
shackled sympathy. 

Always  actuated  by  generous  impulses,  but  often  rash  in 
his  determinations,  and  impetuous  in  their  fulfilment;  full 
of  the  warmest  sensibility,  hating  that  the  meanest  thing 
that  breathed  should  endure  pain,  ;tnd  feeling  the  most  poig- 
nant sympathy  for  all  suffering,  Neville  had  been  maddened 
by  his  own  thoughts,  while  he  brooded  over  the  position  in 
which  Elizabeth  was  placed.  Not  one  of  those  various 
circumstances  that  alleviate  disaster  to  those  who  endure 
it,  presented  themselves  to  his  imagination — he  saw  adver- 
sity in  its  most  hideous  form,  without  relief  or  disguise — 
names  and  images  appending  to  Falkner's  frightful  lot, 
which  he  and  Elizabeth  carefully  banished  from  their 
thoughts,  haunted  him.  The  fate  of  the  basest  felon  hung 
over  the  prisoner — Neville  believed  that  it  must  inevitably 
fall  on  him  ;  he  often  wondered  that  he  did  not  contrive  to 
escape ;  that  Elizabeth,  devoted  and  heroic,  did  not  contrive 
some  means  of  throwing  open  his  dungeon's  doors.  He 
had  endeavoured  to  open  his  father's  eyes,  to  soften  his 
heart,  in  vain.  He  had  exerted  himself  to  discover  wheth- 
er any  trace  of  long  past  circumstances  existed  that  might 
tend  to  acquit  Falkner.  He  had  gone  to  Treby,  visited  the 
graves  of  the  hapless  parents  of  Elizabeth,  seen  Mrs.  Baker, 
and  gathered  there  the  account  of  his  landing ;  but  nothing 
helped  to  elucidate  the  mystery  of  his  mother's  death; 
Falkner's  own  account  was  the  only  trace  left  behind ;  that 
bore  the  stamp  of  truth  in  every  line,  and  appeared  to  him 
so  honourable  a  tribute  to  poor  Alithea's  memory,  that  he 
looked  with  disgust  on  Ills  father's  endeavours  to  cast  upon 
24 


278  FALKNER. 

it  suspicions  and  interpretations  the  most  hideous  and  ap- 
palling. 

In  the  first  instance,  he  had  been  bewildered  by  Sir  Boy- 
vill's  sophistry,  and  half  conquered  by  his  plausible  argu- 
ments. But  a  short  time,  and  the  very  circumstance  of 
Elizabeth's  fidehty  to  his  cause  sufficed  to  show  him  the 
baseness  of  his  motives,  and  the  real  injury  he  did  his 
mother's  fame. 

Resolved  to  clear  the  minds  of  other  men  from  the  pre- 
judice against  the  prisoner  thus  spread  abroad,  and  at  least 
to  secure  a  fair  trial,  Neville  made  no  secret  of  his  belief 
that  Falkner  was  innocent.  He  represented  him  every- 
where as  a  gentleman — a  man  of  humanity  and  honour — 
whose  crime  ought  to  receive  its  punishment  from  his  own 
conscience,  and  at  the  hand  of  the  husband  or  son  of  the 
victim  in  the  field;  and  whom,  to  pursue  as  his  father  did, 
was  at  once  futile  and  disgraceful.  Sir  Boyvill,  irritated  by 
Falkner's  narrative  ;  his  vanity  wounded  to  the  quick  by 
the  avowed  indifference  of  his  wife,  was  enraged  beyond 
all  bounds  by  the  opposition  of  his  son.  Unable  to  under- 
stand his  generous  nature,  and  relying  on  his  previous  zeal 
for  his  mother's  cause,  he  had  not  doubted  but  that  his  re- 
venge would  find  a'  ready  ally  in  him.  His  present  argu- 
ments, his  esteem  for  their  enemy,  his  desire  that  he  should 
be  treated  with  a  forbearance  which,  between  gentlemen, 
was  but  an  adherence  to  the  code  of  honour — appeared  to 
Sir  Boyvill  insanity,  and  worse — a  weakness  the  most  des- 
picable, a  want  of  resentment  the  most  low-minded.  But 
he  cared  not — the  game  was  in  his  hands — revelling  in  the 
idea  of  his  enemy's  ignominious  suff'erings,  he  more  than 
half  persuaded  himself  that  his  accusation  Avas  true,  and 
that  the  punishment  of  a  convicted  felon  would  at  last  sat- 
isfy his  thirst  for  revenge.  A  feeble  old  man,  tottering  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave,  he  gloried  to  think  that  his  grasp 
was  still  deadly,  his  power  acknowledged  in  throes  of  agony, 
by  him  by  whom  he  had  been  injured. 

Returning  to  Dromore  from  Carlisle,  Gerard  sought  his 
father.  Osborne's  refusal  to  appear  crowned  Sir  Boyvill's 
utmost  hopes;  and  his  sarcastic  congratulations,  when  he 
saw  his  son,  expressed  all  the  malice  of  his  heart.  Gerard 
replied  with  composure,  that  he  did  indeed  fear  that  this 
circumstance  would  prove  fatal  to  the  course  of  justice  ;  but 
that  it  must  not  tamely  be  submitted  to,  and  that  he  himself 
was  going  to  America  to  induce  Osborne  to  come,  that  no- 
thing might  be  wanting  to  elucidate  the  mystery  of  his 
mother's  fate,  and  to  render  the  coming  trial  full,  fair,  and 
satisfactory.  Such  an  announcement  rendered,  for  a  mo- 
ment. Sir  Boyvill  speechless  with  rage.  A  violent  scene 
ensued.  Gerard,  resolved,  and  satisfied  of  the  propriety  of 
his  resolution,  was  calm  and  firm.     Sir  Bovvill,  habituated 


FALKNER.  279 

to  the  use  of  vituperative  expressions,  boiled  over  with 
angry  denunciations  and  epithets  of  abuse.  He  called  his 
son  tlie  disgrace  of  his  family — the  opprobrium  of  mankind — 
the  detractor  of  his  mother's  fame.  Gerard  smiled  ;  yet,  at 
heart,  he  deeply  felt  the  misery  of  thus  for  ever  finding  an 
opponent  in  his  father,  and  it  required  all  the  enthusiasm 
and  passion  of  his  nature  to  banish  the  humiliating  and  sad- 
dening influence  of  Sir  Boyvill's  indignation. 

They  parted  worse  friends  than  ever.  Sir  Boyvill  set  out 
for  town  ;  Gerard  repaired  to  Liverpool.  The  wind  was  con- 
trary— there  was  little  hope  of  change.  He  thought  that  it 
would  conduce  to  his  success  in  America,  if  he  spent  the 
necessary  interval  in  seeing  Hoskins  again ;  and  also  in  con- 
sulting with  his  friend,  the  American  minister ;  so,  in  all  haste, 
having  first  secured  his  passage  on  board  a  vessel  that  was 
to  sail  in  four  or  five  days,  he  also  set  out  for  London. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

The  philosophy  of  Falkner  was  not  proof  against  the  in- 
telligence that  Gerard  Neville  was  about  to  undertake  the 
voyage  to  America  for  the  sake  of  inducing  Osborne  to 
come  over.  Elizabeth  acquainted  him  with  her  design,  and 
her  friend's  determination  to  replace  her,  with  sparkling 
eyes,  and  cheeks  flushed  by  the  agitation  of  pleasure — the 
pure  pleasure  of  having  such  proof  of  the  worth  of  him 
she  loved.  Falkner  was  even  more  deeply  touched  ;  even 
though  he  felt  humiliated  by  the  very  generosity  that  fiUed 
him  with  admiration.  His  blood  was  stirred,  and  his  feel- 
ings tortured  him  by  a  sense  of  his  own  demerits,  and  the 
excellence  of  one  he  had  injured.  "  Better  die  without  a 
word,  than  purchase  my  life  thus  !"  were  the  words  hover- 
ing on  his  lips — yet  it  was  no  base  cost  that  he  paid — and 
he  could  only  rejoice  at  the  virtues  of  the  son  of  her  whom 
he  had  so  passionately  loved.  Tiiere  are  moments  when 
the  past  is  remembered  with  intolerable  agonv  ;  and  when 
to  alter  events,  which  occurred  at  the  distance  of  many 
years,  becomes  a  passion  and  a  thirst.  His  regret  at  Ali- 
thea's  marriage  seemed  all  renewed — his  agony  that  tlience- 
forth  she  was  not  to  be  the  half  of  his  existence,  as  he  had 
hoped  ;  that  her  child  was  not  his  child ;  that  her  daily  life, 
her  present  pleasures,  and  future  hopes  were  divorced 
from  his — all  these  feelings  were  revived,  together  with  a 
burning  jealousy,  as  if,  instead  of  being  a  buried  corpse, 
she  had  still  adorned  her  home  with  her  loveliness  and  vir- 
tues. 


280  FALKNER. 

Such  thoughts  lost  their  poignancy  by  degrees,  and  he 
could  charm  Elizabeth  by  dwelling  on  Gerard's  praises  ; 
and  he  remarked  with  pleasure  that  she  resumed  her  viva- 
•city,  and  recovered  the  colour  and  elasticity  of  motion, 
which  she  had  lost.  She  did  not  feel  less  for  Falkner  ;  but 
her  contemplations  had  lost  their  sombre  hue — they  were 
full  of  Neville — his  voyage — his  exertions — his  success — 
his  return  ;  and  the  spirit  of  love  that  animated  each  of 
these  acts  were  gone  over  and  over  again  in  her  waking 
dreams  ;  unbidden  smiles  gleamed  in  her  countenance  ;  her 
ideas  were  gayly  coloured,  and  her  conversation  gained  a 
variety  and  cheerfulness  that  lightened  the  burden  of  their 
prison  hours. 

Meanwhile  Neville  arrived  in  London.  He  visited  the 
American  minister,  and  learned  from  him  that  Osborne  had 
given  up  the  place  he  held,  and  had  left  Washington — no 
one  knew  wliither  he  was  gone — these  events  being  still 
too  recent  to  leave  any  trace  behind.  It  was  evident  that 
to  seek  and  find  him  would  be  a  work  of  trouble  and  time, 
and  Neville  felt  that  not  a  moment  must  be  lost — Decem- 
ber was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  voyages  to  and  from 
America  might,  if  not  favourable,  consume  the  whole  inter- 
val that  still  remained  before  the  spring  assizes.  Hoskins, 
he  learned,  was  gone  to  Liverpool. 

He  visited  Lady  Cecil  before  he  left  town.  Though 
somewhat  tainted  by  worldliness,  yet  this  very  feeling  made 
her  highly  disapprove  Sir  Boyvill's  conduct.  A  plausible, 
and,  she  believed,  true  account  was  given  of  Mrs.  Neville's 
death — exonerating  her — redounding  indeed  to  her  honour. 
It  was  injurious  to  all  to  cast  doubts  upon  this  tale — it  was 
vulgar  and  base  to  pursue  revenge  with  such  malicious  and 
cruel  pertinacity.  Falkner  was  a  gentleman,  and  deserved 
to  be  treated  as  such;  and  now  he  and  Elizabeth  were 
mixed  up  in  loathsome  scenes  and  details,  that  made  Lady 
Cecil  shudder  even  to  think  of. 

That  Gerard  should  go  to  America  as  the  advocate,  as  it 
were,  of  Falkner,  startled  her ;  but  he  represented  his  voy- 
age in  a  simpler  hght,  as  not  being  undertaken  for  his  bene- 
fit, but  for  the  sake  of  justice  and  truth.  Sir  Boyvill  came 
in  upon  tliem  while  they  were  discussing  this  measure.  He 
was  absolutely  phrensied  by  his  son's  conduct  and  views  ;  his 
exasperation  but  tended  to  disgust,  and  did  not  operate  to 
shake  their  opinions. 

Neville  hastened  back  to  Liverpool;  a  southwest  wind 
reigned,  wliose  violence  prevented  any  vessel  from  sailing 
for  America  ;  it  was  evident  that  the  passage  would  be  long, 
and  perhaps  hazardous.  Neville  thought  only  of  the  delay ; 
but  this  made  him  anxious.  A  portion  of  his  time  was 
spent  in  seeking  for  Hoskins ;  but  he  was  not  to  be  found. 
At  last  it  was  notified  to  him  that  the  wind  had  a  little 


FALKNER.  281 

changed,  and  that  the  packet  was  about  to  sail.  He  hurried 
on  board — soon  they  were  tossing  on  a  tempestuous  sea — 
they  lost  sight  of  land — sky  and  ocean,  each  dusky,  and  the 
one  rising  at  each  moment  into  more  tumultuous  commo- 
tion, surrounded  them.  Neville,  supporting  himself  by  a 
rope,  looked  out  over  the  horizon — a  few  months  before  ho 
had  anticipated  the  same  voyage  over  a  summer  sea — now 
he  went  under  far  other  auspices — the  veil  was  raised — the 
mystery  explained ;  but  the  wintry  storms  that  had  gatherefl 
round  him  were  but  types  of  the  tempestuous  passions 
which  the  discoveries  he  had  made  raised  in  the  hearts  of 
all. 

For  three  days  and  nights  the  vessel  beat  about  in  the 
Irish  Channel,  unable  to  make  any  way — three  days  were 
thus  lost  to  their  voyage — and  when  were  they  to  arrive  ? 
Impatient — almost  terrified  by  the  delay  which  attended  his 
endeavours,  Neville  began  to  despair  of  success.  On  the 
fourth  night  the  gale  rose  to  a  hurricane — there  was  no 
choice  but  to  run  before  it — by  noon  the  following  day  the 
captain  thought  himself  very  lucky  to  make  the  harbour  of 
Liverpool ;  and  though  the  gale  had  much  abated,  and  the 
wind  had  veered  into  a  more  favourable  quarter,  it  was  ne- 
cessary to  run  in  to  refit.  With  bitter  feelings  of  disappoint- 
ment, Neville  disembarked ;  several  days  must  elapse  be- 
fore the  packet  would  be  able  to  put  to  sea,  so  he  abandon- 
ed the  idea  of  going  by  her — and  finding  a  New- York  mer- 
chantman preparing  to  sail  at  an  early  hour  the  following 
morning,  he  resolved  to  take  his  passage  on  board.  He 
hastened  to  the  American  coffee-house  to  see  the  captain, 
and  make  the  necessary  arrangements  for  his  voyage. 

The  captain  had  just  left  the  tavern ;  but  a  waiter  came 
up  to  Neville,  and  told  him  that  the  Mr.  Hoskins,  concern- 
ing whom  he  had  before  inquired,  was  in  the  house — in  a 
private  room.  "  Show  me  to  him,"  said  Neville,  and  follow- 
ed the  man  as  he  went  to  announce  him. 

Hoskins  was  not  alone — he  had  a  friend  with  him,  and 
they  were  seated  over  their  wine  on  each  side  of  the  fire. 
Neville  could  not  help  being  struck  with  the  confusion 
evinced  by  both  as  he  entered.  The  person  with  Hoskins 
was  a  fair,  light-haired,  rather  good-looking  man,  though 
past  the  prime  of  life — he  had  at  once  an  expression  of  good- 
nature and  cunning  in  his  face,  and,  added  to  this,  a  timid, 
baffled  look — which  grew  into  something  very  like  dismay 
when  the  waiter  announced  "  Mr.  Neville." 

"  Good-morning,  sir,"  said  Hoskins ;  "  I  hear  that  you 
have  been  inquiring  for  me.  I  thought  all  our  business  was 
settled." 

"  On  your  side,  probably,"  replied  Neville ;  "  on  mine  I 
hav& reasons  for  wishing  to  see  you.  I  have  been  seeking  you 
in  vain  in  London  and  here." 
24* 


S82  FALKNER. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  said  the  other,  "  I  went  round  by  Raven- 
glass  to  take  leave  of  the  old  woman  before  I  crossed — and 
here  I  am,  my  passage  taken,  with  not  an  hour  to  lose.  I 
sail  by  the  Owyhee,  Captain  Bateman." 

"  Then  we  shall  have  time  enough  for  all  my  inquiries," 
observed  Neville.  "  I  came  here  for  the  very  purpose  of 
arranging  my  passage  with  Captain  Bateman." 

"  You,  sir !  are  you  going  to  America  ]  I  thought  that 
was  all  at  an  end. ' 

"  It  is  more  necessary  than  ever.  I  must  see  Osborne 
— I  must  bring  him  over — his  testimony  is  necessary  to 
clear  up  the  mystery  that  hangs  over  my  mother's  fate." 

"  You  are  nearer  hanging  Mr.  Falkner  without  him  than 
with  him,"  said  Hoskins. 

"  I  would  bring  him  over  for  the  very  purpose  of  saving 
a  man  whom  I  believe  to  be  innocent  of  the  crime  he  is 
charged  with ;  for  that  purpose  I  go  to  America.  I  wish 
the  truth  to  be  established — I  have  no  desire  for  revenge." 

"  And  do  you  really  go  to  America  for  that  purpose  V* 
repeated  Hoskins. 

"  Certainly — I  consider  it  my  duty,"  replied  Neville. 
"  Nay,  it  may  be  said  that  I  went  for  this  design,  for  I 
sailed  by  the  John  Adams — which  has  been  driven  back 
by  contrary  winds.     I  disembarked  only  half  an  hour  ago." 

"  That  beats  all !"  cried  Hoskins.  "  Why,  do  you  know 
— I  have  more  than  half  a  mind  to  tell  you — you  had  really 
sailed  for  America  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  Osborne 
over,  and  you  now  intend  taking  a  passage  on  board  the 
Owyhee  V 

"  Certainly ;  why  not  ]  What  is  there  so  strange  in  all 
this  ?  I  sought  you  for  the  sake  of  making  inquiries  that 
might  guide  me  in  my  search  for  Osborne,  who  wishes  to 
conceal  himself." 

"  You  could  not  have  addressed  a  better  man — by  the 
Lord  !  He's  a  craven,  and  deserves  no  better ;  so  I'll  just 
let  out,  Mr.  Neville,  that  Osborne  sneaked  out  of  this  room 
at  the  instant  he  saw  you  come  into  it." 

Neville  had  seen  Hoskins's  companion  disappear — he 
thought  it  but  an  act  of  civility — the  strangeness  of  this 
coincidence,  the  course  of  events  at  once  so  contrary  and 
so  propitious,  staggered  him  for  a  moment.  "  They  tell  of 
the  rattlesnake,"  said  Hoskins,  "  that,  fixing  its  eye  on  its 
prey,  a  bird  becomes  fascinated,  and  Avheels  round  nearer 
and  nearer  till  he  falls  into  the  jaws  of  the  enemy — poor 
Osborne  !  He  wishes  himself  on  the  sliores  of  the  Pacific, 
to  be  far  enough  off — and  here  he  is,  and  turn  and  twist  as 
he  will,  it  will  end  by  the  law  grasping  him  by  the  shoulder, 
and  dragging  him  to  the  very  noose  he.  so  fears  to  slip  into ; 
not  that  he  helped  to  murder  the  lady — you  do  not  believe 
that,  Mr.  Neville  !— you  do  not  think  that  the  lady  was 
murdered  V 


FALKNER,  283 

''  I  would  stake  my  existence  that  she  was  not,"  said  Ne- 
ville ;  "  were  it  otherwise,  I  should  have  no  desire  to  see 
Osborne,  or  to  interfere.  Strange,  most  strange  it  is,  that 
he  should  be  here ;  and  he  is  come,  you  think,  with  no  de- 
sign of  offering  his  testimony  to  clear  Mr.  Falkner  ]" 

"  He  is  come  under  a.  feigned  name,"  replied  Hoskins ; 
"  under  pretence  that  he  was  sent  by  Osborne — he  has 
brought  a  quantity  of  attested  declarations,  and  hopes  to 
seiTC  Mr.  Falkner  without  endangering  his  own  neck." 

It  was  even  so.  Osborne  was  a  weak  man,  good-hearted, 
as  it  is  called,  but  a  craven.  No  sooner  did  he  hear  that 
Hillary  had  sailed  for  Europe,  and  that  he  might  consider 
himself  safe,  than  he  grew  uneasy  on  another  score.  He 
had  still  possession,  even  while  he  had  denied  all  knowledge 
of  the  writer,  of  Falkner's  letter,  representing  to  him  the 
necessity  of  coming  over.  It  was  simply  but  forcibly 
written ;  every  word  went  to  the  heart  of  Osborne,  now 
that  he  believed  that  his  conduct  would  make  over  his  gen- 
erous benefactor  to  an  ignominious  end.  This  idea  haunted 
him  like  an  unlaid  ghost ;  yet,  if  they  hanged  Falkner,  what 
should  prevent  them  from  hanging  him  too  ?  suspicion  must 
fall  equally  on  both. 

When  Hillary  had  urged  the  case,  many  other  objections 
had  presented  themselves  to  Osborne's  mind.  He  thought 
o[  the  new  honest  course  he  had  pursued  so  long,  the  hon- 
ourable station  he  had  gained,  the  independence  and  respect- 
ability of  his  present  life ;  and  he  shrunk  from  giving  up 
these  advantages,  and  becoming  again,  in  all  men's  eyes, 
the  Osborne  whose  rascality  he  had  left  behind  in  England ; 
it  seemed  hard  that  he  should  feel  the  weight  of  the  chain 
that  bound  his  former  existence  to  his  present  one,  when 
he  fondly  hoped  that  time  had  broken  it.  But  these  minor 
considerations  vanished  as  soon  as  the  idea  of  Falkner's 
danger  fastened  itself  on  his  mind.  It  is  always  easy  to 
fall  back  upon  a  state  of  being  which  once  was  ours.  The 
uncertain,  disreputable  life  Osborne  had  once  led,  he  had 
gladly  bidden  adieu  to  ;  but  the  traces  were  still  there,  and 
he  could  fall  into  the  way  of  it  without  any  great  shock. 
Besides  this,  he  knew  that  Hillary  had  made  his  coming, 
and  the  cause  of  it,  known  to  the  legal  authorities  in  Wash- 
ington ;  and  though  he  might  persist  in  his  denials,  still  he 
felt  that  he  should  be  universally  disbelieved. 

A  dislike  at  being  questioned  and  looked  askance  upon  by 
his  American  friends  made  him  already  turn  his  eyes  west- 
ward. A  longing  to  see  the  old  country  arose  unbidden  in 
his  heart.  Above  all,  he  could  neither  rest,  nor  sleep,  nor 
eat,  nor  perform  any  of  the  offices  of  life,  for  the  haunting 
image  of  his  benefactor,  left  by  him  to  die  a  felon's  death. 
Not  that  he  felt  tempted  to  alter  his  determination,  and  to 
come  forward  to  save  him  :  on  the  contrary,  his  blood  grew 


284  PALKNER. 

chill,  and  his  flesh  shrunk  at  the  thought ;  but  still  he 
might  conceal  himself  in  England ;  no  one  would  suspect 
him  of  being  there  ;  he  would  be  on  the  spot  to  watch  the 
course  of  events  ;  and  if  it  was  supposed  that  he  could 
render  any  assistance,  without  compromising  himself,  he 
should  at  least  be  able  to  judge  fairly  how  far  he  might  con- 
cede :  his  vacillating  mind  could  go  no  further  in  its  conclu- 
sions. Hoskins  had  rightly  compared  him  to  the  bird  and  the 
rattlesnake.  He  was  fascinated ;  he  could  not  avoid  draw- 
ing nearer  and  nearer  to  the  danger  which  he  believed  to  be 
yawning  to  swallow  him ;  ten  days  after  Hillary  left  Amer- 
ica, he  was  crossing  the  Atlantic.  Hoskins  was  the  first 
person  he  saw  on  landing,  the  second  was  Neville.  His 
heart  grew  cold;  he  felt  himself  in  the  toils  ;  how  bitterly 
he  repented  his  voyage.  Coward  as  he  was,  he  died  a 
thousand  deaths  from  fear  of  that  one  which,  in  fact,  there 
was  no  danger  of  his  incurring. 

That  Osborne  should  of  his  own  accord  have  come  to 
England  appeared  to  smooth  everything.  Neville  did  not 
doubt  that  he  should  be  able  to  persuade  him  to  come  for- 
ward at  the  right  time.  He  instructed  Hoskins  to  reas- 
sure him,  and  to  induce  him  to  see  him ;  and,  if  he  ob- 
jected, to  contrive  that  they  should  meet.  He  promised  to 
take  no  measures  for  securing  his  person,  but  to  leave  him 
in  all  liberty  to  act  as  he  chose  ;  he  depended  that  the  same 
uneasy  conscience  that  brought  him  ft-om  America  to  Liver- 
pool woidd  induce  him  at  last,  after  various  throes  and 
struggles,  to  act  as  it  was  supposed  he  would  have  done  at 
the  beginning. 

But  day  after  day  passed,  and  Osborne  was  not  to  be 
found :  Hoskins  had  never  seen  him  again,  and  it  was  im- 
possible to  say  whither  he  was  gone  or  where  he  was  hid. 
The  Owyhee,  whose  voyage  had  again  been  delayed  by 
contrary  winds,  now  sailed.  Hoskins  went  with  her.  It 
was  possible  that  Osborne  might  be  on  board,  returning  to 
the  land  of  refuge.  Neville  saw  the  captain,  and  he  denied 
having  such  a  passenger  ;  but  he  might  be  bound  to  secrecy, 
or  Osborne  might  have  disguised  himself.  Neville  went  on 
board ;  he  carefully  examined  each  person  ;  he  questioned 
both  crew  and  passengers  ;  he  even  bribed  the  sailors  to  in- 
form him  if  any  one  were  secreted.  The  Owyhee  was 
not,  however,  the  only  vessel  sailing  ;  nearly  thirty  packets 
and  merchantmen,  who  had  been  detained  by  foul  winds, 
were  but  waiting  for  a  tide  to  carry  them  out.  Neville  de- 
liberated whether  he  should  not  apply  to  a  magistrate  for  a 
search-warrant.  He  was  averse  to  this — nay,  repugnant. 
It  was  of  the  first  importance  to  the  utility  of  Osborne  as  a 
witness,  that  he  should  surrender  himself  voluntarily.  The 
seizing  him  by  force,  as  an  accomplice  in  the  murder,  would 
only   place  him  beside  Falkner  m  the   dock,  and  render 


FALKNER.  285 

his  evidence  of  no  avail ;  and  his,  Neville's,  causing  his  ar- 
rest, could  only  be  regarded  as  a  piece  of  rancorous  hostil- 
ity against  the  accused  ;  yet  to  suffer  him  to  depart  from 
the  English  shores  was  madness ;  and  worse  still,  to  be  left 
in  doubt  of  whether  he  had  gone  or  remained.  If  the  first 
were  ascertained,  Neville  could  take  his  passage  also,  and 
there  might  still  be  time  to  bring  him  back. 

When  we  act  for  another,  we  are  far  more  liable  to  hesi- 
tation than  when  our  deeds  regard  ourselves  only.  We 
dread  to  appear  lukewarm ;  we  dread  to  mar  all  by  ofB- 
ciousness.  Ill-success  always  appears  a  fault,  and  yet  we 
dare  not  make  a  bold  venture — such  as  we  should  not  hesi- 
tate upon  were  it  our  own  cause.  Neville  felt  certain  that 
Falkner  would  not  himself  deliberate,  but  risk  all  to  possess 
himself  of  the  person  of  Osborne  ;  still  he  dared  not  take  so 
perilous,  perhaps  so  fatal,  a  step. 

The  tide  rose,  and  the  various  docks  filled.  One  by  one 
the  American-bound  vessels  dropped  out  and  put  to  sea. 
It  was  a  moment  of  agony  to  Neville  to  see  their  sails  un- 
furl, swell  to  the  wind,  and  make  a  speedy  and  distant 
offing.  He  now  began  to  accuse  himself  bitterly  of  neglect 
— he  believed  that  there  was  but  one  mode  of  redeeming 
his  fault — to  hurry  on  board  one  of  the  packets,  and  to 
arrive  in  America  as  soon  as  Osborne,  whom,  he  felt  con- 
vinced, was  already  on  his  way  thither.  Swift  in  his  con- 
victions, rash  in  execution,  uncertainty  was  peculiarly  hos- 
tile to  his  nature ;  and  these  moments  of  vacillation  and 
doubt,  and  then  of  self-reproach  at  having  lost  all  in  conse- 
quence, were  the  most  painful  of  his  life.  To  determine 
to  do  something  was  some  consolation,  and  now  he  resolved 
on  his  voyage.  He  hurried  back  to  his  hotel  for  a  few  ne- 
cessaries and  money.  On  his  entrance,  a  letter  was  put 
into  his  hands — the  contents  changed  the  whole  current  of 
his  ideas.  His  countenance  cleared  up — the  tumult  of  his 
thoughts  subsided  into  a  happy  calm.  Changing  all  his 
plans,  instead  of  undertaking  a  voyage  to  America,  he  the 
same  evening  set  out  for  London. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

The  prisoner  and  his  faithful  companion  knew  nothing  of 
these  momentous  changes.  Day  by  day  Elizabeth  with- 
drew from  the  fire  to  the  only  window  in  her  fathers  room  ; 
moving  her  embroidery  table  close  to  it,  her  eyes  turned, 
however,  to  the  sky,  instead  of  to  the  flowers  she  was  work- 
ing ;  and  leaning  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  she  perpetually 


286  FALKNER. 

watched  the  clouds.  Gerard  was  already,  she  fancied,  on  the 
waste  of  waters  ;  yet  the  clouds  did  not  change  their  direc- 
tion— they  all  sped  one  way,  and  that  contrary  to  his  desti- 
nation. Thus  she  passed  her  mornings  ;  and  when  she  re- 
turned to  her  own  abode,  where  her  heart  could  more  en- 
tirely spend  its  thoughts  on  her  lover  and  his  voyage,  her 
lonely  room  was  no  longer  lonely,  nor  the  gloomy  season 
any  longer  gloomy.  More  than  happy — a  breathless  rapture 
quickened  the  beatings  of  her  heart,  as  she  told  over  again 
and  again  Neville's  virtues,  and,  dearer  than  all,  his  claims 
on  her  gratitude. 

Falkner  saw  with  pleasure  the  natural  effects  of  love  and 
hope  add  to  the  cheerfulness  of  his  beloved  child,  dilTuse  a 
soft  charm  over  her  person,  her  motions,  and  her  voice,  and 
impart  a  playful  tenderness  to  her  before  rather  serious 
manners.  Youth,  love,  and  happiness  are  so  very  beautiful 
in  their  conjunction.  "  God  grant,"  he  thought,  "  I  do  not 
mar  this  fair  creature's  life — may  she  be  happier  than  Ali- 
thea;  if  man  can  be  worthy  of  her,  Gerard  Neville  surely  is." 
As  he  turned  his  eyes  silently  from  the  book  that  apparently 
occupied  him,  and  contemplated  her  pensive  countenance, 
whose  expression  showed  that  she  was  wrapped  in,  yet  enjoy- 
ing her  thoughts,  retrospect  made  him  sad.  He  went  over 
his  own  life,  its  clouded  morning,  the  glad  beams  that  broke 
out  to  dissipate  those  clouds,  and  the  final  setting  amid  tern-' 
pests  and  wreck.  Was  all  life  like  this,  must  all  be  disap- 
pointed hope,  baffled  desires,  lofty  imaginations  engender- 
ing fatal  acts,  and  bringing  the  proud  thus  low  ]  would  she 
at  his  age  view  life  as  he  did — a  weary  wilderness — a 
tangled,  endless  labyrinth,  leading  by  one  rough  path  or  an- 
other to  a  bitter  end  ?  He  hoped  not,  her  innocence  must 
receive  other  reward  from  Heaven. 

It  was  on  a  day  as  they  were  thus  occupied — Falkner 
refrained  from  interrupting  Elizabeth's  revery,  which  he  felt 
was  sweeter  to  her  than  any  converse — and  appeared  ab- 
sorbed in  reading ;  suddenly  she  exclaimed,  "  The  wind  has 
changed,  dear  father ;  indeed  it  has  changed,  it  is  favoura- 
ble now.  Do  you  not  feel  how  much  colder  it  is  1  the  wind 
has  got  to  the  north,  there  is  a  little  east  in  it  ;  his  voyage 
will  not  be  a  long  one  if  this  change  only  lasts  !" 

Falkner  answered  her  by  a  smile  ;  but  it  was  humiliating 
to  think  of  the  object  of  that  voyage,  and  her  cheerful  voice 
announcing  that  it  was  to  be  prosperous  struck,  he  knew 
not  why,  a  saddening  chord.  At  this  moment  he  heard  the 
bolts  of  the  chamber-door  pushed  back,  and  the  key  turn  in 
the  lock — the  turnkey  entered,  followed  by  another  man, 
who  hesitated  as  he  came  forward,  and  then,  as  he  glanced 
at  the  inhabitants  of  the  room,  drew  back,  saying,  "There 
is  some  mistake  ;  Mr.  Falkner  is  not  here." 

But  for  his  habitual  self-command,  Falkner  had  started 


FALKNER.  287 

up,  and  made  an  exclamation — so  surprised  was  he  to  be- 
hold the  person  wiio  entered — for  he  recognised  his  visitant 
on  the  instant — he  himself  was  far  more  changed  by  the 
course  of  years ;  time,  sickness,  and  remorse  had  used  other 
tlian  Praxitilean  art,  and  had  defaced  the  lines  of  grace  and 
power  which  had  marked  him  many  years  ago,  before  his 
hands  had  dug  Alithea's  grave.  He  was  indeed  surprised 
to  see  who  entered  ;  but  he  showed  no  sign  of  wonder,  only 
saying  with  a  calm  smile,  "  No,  there  is  no  mistake,  I  am 
the  man  you  seek." 

The  other  now  apparently  recognised  him,  and  advanced 
timidly,  and  in  confusion — the  turnkey  left  them,  and  Falk- 
ner  then  said,  "  Osborne,  you  deserve  my  thanks  for  this, 
but  I  did  believe  that  it  would  come  to  this." 

"  No,"  said  Osborne,  "  I  do  not  deserve  thanks — I — " 
and  he  looked  confused,  and  glanced  towards  Elizabeth. 
Falkner  followed  his  eye,  and  understanding  his  look,  said, 
"  You  do  not  fear  being  betrayed  by  a  lady,  Osborne;  you 
are  safe  here  as  in  i\  merica.  I  see  how  it  is,  you  are  here 
mider  a  false  name  ;  no  one  is  aware  that  you  are  the  man 
who  a  few  weeks  ago  refused  to  appear  to  save  a  fellow- 
creature  from  death." 

"  I  see  no  way  to  do  that  now,"  replied  Osborne,  hesi- 
tatingly ;  "  I  do  not  come  for  that,  I  come— I  could  not  stay 
away — I  thought  something  might  be  done." 

"  Elizabeth,  my  love,"  said  Falkner,  "  you  at  least  will 
thank  Mr.  Osborne  for  his  spontaneous  services — you  are 
watching  the  clouds  which  were  to  bear  along  the  vessel 
towards  him,  and  beyond  our  hopes  he  is  already  here." 

Elizabeth  listened  breathlessly — she  feared  to  utter  a  word, 
lest  it  should  prove  a  dream — now,  gathering  Falkner's 
meaning,  she  came  forward,  and  with  all  a  woman's  grace  ad- 
dressed the  trembling  man,  who  already  looked  at  the  door 
as  if  he  longed  to  be  on  the  other  side,  fearful  that  he  was 
caught  in  his  own  toils ;  for,  as  Hoskins  said,  the  fascinated 
prey  had  wheeled  yet  nearer  to  his  fate  involuntarily — he 
had  been  unable  to  resist  his  desire  to  see  Falkner,  and 
learn  how  it  was  with  him  ;  but  he  still  resolved  not  to  risk 
anything;  he  had  represented  himself  to  the  magistrates  as 
coming  from  Osborne,  showing  false  papers,  and  a  declara- 
tion drawn  up  by  him  at  Washington,  and  attested  before 
official  men  there,  setting  forth  Falkner's  innocence  ;  he  had 
brought  this  over  to  see  if  it  would  serve  his  benefactor, 
and  had  thus  got  access  to  him  :  such  was  his  reliance  on 
the  honour  of  his  patron,  that  he  had  not  hesitated  in  placing 
himself  in  his  power,  well  aware  that  he  should  not  be  de- 
tained by  him  against  his  ^^^ll ;  for  still  his  heart  quailed, 
and  his  soul  shrunk  from  rendering  him  the  service  that 
would  save  his  life. 

His  mamier  revealed  his  thoughts  to  the  observant  Falk- 


288  FALKNER, 

ner ;  but  Elizabeth,  less  well  read  in  men's  hearts,  younger 
and  more  sanguine,  saw  in  his  arrival  the  completion  of  her 
hopes  ;  and  she  thanked  him  with  so  much  warmth,  and 
with  such  heartfelt  praises  of  his  kindness  and  generosity, 
that  Osborne  began  to  think  that  his  greatest  difficulty  would 
be  in  resisting  her  fascination  and  disappointing  her  wishes. 
He  stammered  out  at  last  some  lame  excuses.  All  he 
could  do  consistently  with  safety,  they  might  command  ;  he 
had  shown  this  by  coming  over — more  could  not  be  asked, 
could  not  be  expected — he  himself,  God  knew,  was  inno- 
cent, so  was  Mr.  Falkner,  of  the  crime  he  was  charged  with. 
But  he  had  no  hand  whatever  in  the  transaction  ;  he  was  not 
in  his  confidence ;  he  had  not  known  even  who  the  lady 
was  ;  his  testimony,  after  all,  must  be  worth  nothing,  for  he 
had  nothing  to  tell,  and  for  this  he  was  to  expose  himself  to 
disgrace  and  death. 

Acquiring  courage  at  the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  Osborne 
grew  lluent.  Elizabeth  drew  back — she  looked  anxiously 
at  Falkner,  and  saw  a  cloud  of  displeasure  and  scorn  gather 
over  his  countenance — she  put  her  hand  on  his,  as  if  to  check 
the  outbreak  of  his  indignation  ;  yet  she  herself,  as  Osborne 
went  on,  turned  her  eyes  flashing  with  disdain  upon  him. 
The  miserable  fellow  cowed  before  the  glances  of  both  ;  he 
shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other ;  he  dared  not  look  up ; 
but  he  knew  that  their  eyes  were  on  him,  and  he  felt  the 
beams  transfix  him,  and  wither  up  his  soul.  There  are 
weak  men  who  yield  to  persuasion  ;  there  are  weaker  who 
are  vanquished  by  reproaches  and  contempt ;  of  such  was 
Osborne.  His  tluency  faded  into  broken  accents  ;  his  voice 
died  away — as  a  last  effort,  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  Enough,  sir,"  said  Falkner,  in  a  calm,  contemptuous 
voice  ;  "  and  now  begone — hasten  away — do  not  stop  till 
you  have  gained  the  shore,  the  ship,  the  waves  of  the  At- 
lantic ;  be  assured  I  shall  not  send  for  you  a  second  time ; 
I  have  no  desire  to  owe  my  life  to  you." 

"  If  I  could  save  your  life,  Mr.  Falkner,"  he  began ; 
"  but—" 

"  We  will  not  argue  that  point,"  interrupted  Falkner ;  "  it 
is  enough  that  it  is  generally  asserted  that  your  testimony 
is  necessary  for  my  preservation.  Were  my  crime  as 
great  as  it  is  said  to  be,  it  would  find  its  punishment  in  that 
humiliation.  Go,  sir ;  you  are  safe !  I  would  not  advise 
you  to  loiter  here,  return  to  America;  walls  have  ears  in 
abodes  like  these;  you  maybe  forced  to  save  a  fellow-crea- 
ture against  your  will;  hasten  then  away;  go,  eat,  drink, 
and  be  merry — whatever  betides  me,  not  even  my  ghost 
shall  haunt  you.  Meanwhile,  1  would  beg  you  no  longer  to 
insult  me  by  your  presence — begone  at  once." 

"  You  are  angry,  sir,"  said  Osborne,  timidly. 

"  1  hope  not,"  replied  Falkner,  who  had  indeed  felt  his 


FALKNER.  289 

indignation  rise,  and  checked  himself;  "I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  feel  anger  against  a  coward  ;  I  pity  you — you  will 
repent  this  when  too  late." 

"  Oh,  do  not  say  so,"  cried  Elizabeth ;  "  do  not  say  he 
will  repent  when  too  late — but  now,  in  time,  I  am  sure  that 
he  repents ;  do  you  not,  Mr.  Osborne  '\  You  are  told  that 
your  fears  are  vain;  you  know  Mr.  Falkner  is  far  too  noble 
to  draw  you  into  danger  to  save  himself — you  know  even 
that  he  does  not  fear  death,  but  ignominy,  eternal,  horrible 
disgrace ;  and  the  end,  the  frightful  end  prepared,  even  he 
must  recoil  from  that — and  you — no,  you  cannot  in  cold 
blood,  and  with  calm  forethought,  make  him  over  to  it — 
you  cannot,  I  see  that  you  cannot — " 

"  Forbear,  Elizabeth !"  interrupted  Falkner,  in  a  tone  of 
displeasure ;  "  I  will  not  have  my  life,  nor  even  my  honour, 
begged  by  you ;  let  the  worst  come,  the  condemnation,  the 
hangman — 1  can  bear  all,  except  the  degradation  of  suppli- 
cating such  a  man  as  that." 

"  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  Osborne.  "  Yes — you  do  with  me 
as  you  will — I  feared  this,  and  yet  I  thought  myself  firm ; 
do  with  me  as  you  will — call  the  jailer — I  will  surrender 
myself."     He  turned  pale  as  death,  and  tottered  to  a  chair. 

Falkner  turned  his  back  on  him — "  Go,  sir!"  he  repeated, 
"  I  reject  your  sacrifice." 

"  No,  father,  no,"  cried  Elizabeth,  eagerly ;  "  say  not  so 
—you  accept  it — and  I  also,  with  thanks  and  gratitude  :  yet 
it  is  no  sacrifice,  Mr.  Osborne — I  assure  you  that  is  not,  at 
least,  the  sacrifice  you  fear — all  is  far  easier  than  you  tliink 
— there  is  no  prison  for  you — your  arrival  need  not  yet  be 
known — your  consent  being  obtained,  a  pardon  will  be  at 
once  granted — you  are  to  appear  as  a  witness — not  as  a — " 
her  voice  faltered — she  turned  to  Falkner,  her  eyes  brim- 
ming over  with  tears.  Osborne  caught  the  infection ;  he  was 
touched — he  was  cheered  also  by  Elizabeth's  assurances, 
which  he  hoped  that  he  might  believe  ;  hitherto  he  had  been 
too  frightened  and  bewildered  to  hear  accurately  even  what 
he  had  been  told — he  fancied  that  he  must  be  tried — the  par- 
don might  or  might  not  come  afterward — the  youth,  earn- 
estness, and  winning  beauty  of  Elizabeth  moved  him ;  and 
now  that  his  fears  were  a  little  allayed,  he  could  see  more 
clearly,  he  was  even  more  touched  by  the  appearance  of 
his  former  benefactor.  Dignity  and  yet  endurance — suffer- 
ing as  well  as  fortitude — marked  his  traits  ;  there  was  some- 
thing so  innately  noble,  and  yet  so  broken  by  fortune,  ex- 
pressed in  his  commanding  yet  attenuated  features  and  per- 
son— he  was  a  wreck  that  spoke  so  plainly  of  the  glorious 
being  he  had  once  been ;  there  was  so  much  majesty  in  his 
decay — such  real  innocence  sat  on  his  high  and  open  brow, 
streaked  though  it  was  with  disease — such  lofty  composure 
in  his  countenance,  pale  from  confinement  and  suffering — 
25  N 


290  PALKNER. 

that  Osborne  felt  a  mixture  of  respect  and  pity  that  soon 
rose  above  every  other  feeling. 

Reassured  with  regard  to  himself,  and  looking  on  his  pa- 
tron with  eyes  that  caught  the  infection  of  Elizabeth's  tears, 
he  came  forward — "I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Falkner,"  he 
said,  "  for  my  doubts — for  my  cowardice,  if  you  please  so  to 
name  it ;  I  request  you  to  forget  it,  and  to  permit  me  to 
come  forward  in  your  behalf  I  trust  you  will  not  disdain 
my  offer;  though  late,  it  comes,  I  assure  you,  from  my 
heart." 

There  was  no  mock  dignity  about  Falkner ;  a  sunny 
smile  broke  over  his  features  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
Osborne.  "  And  from  my  heart  I  thank  you,"  he  replied, 
"  and  deeply  regret  that  you  are  to  suffer  any  pain  through 
me — mine  was  the  crime,  you  the  instrument ;  it  is  hard, 
very  hard,  that  you  should  be  brought  to  this  through  your 
complaisance  to  me  ;  real  danger  for  you  there  is  none — 
or  I  would  die  this  worst  death  rather  than  expose  you  to 
it." 

Elizabeth  now,  in  all  gladness,  wrote  a  hasty  note ;  de- 
siring Mr.  Colville  to  come  to  them,  that  all  might  at  once 
be  arranged.  "  And  Gerard,  dear  father,"  she  said,  "  we 
must  write  to  Mr.  Neville,  to  recall  him  from  his  far  and 
fruitless  journey." 

"  Mr.  Neville  is  in  Liverpool,"  said  Osborne  ;  "  I  saw 
him  the  very  day  before  I  came  away — he  doubtless  was 
on  the  look-out  for  me,  and  I  dare  swear  Hoskins  betrayed 
me.     We  must  be  on  our  guard — " 

"  Fear  nothing  from  Mr.  Neville,"  replied  Elizabeth  ; 
"he  is  too  good  and  generous  not  to  advocate  justice  and 
truth.     He  is  convinced  of  my  father's  innocence." 

They  were  interrupted — the  solicitor  entered — Osborne's 
appearance  was  beyond  his  hopes — he  could  not  believe  in 
so  much  good  fortune.  He  had  begun  to  doubt,  suspect, 
and  fear — he  speedily  carried  off  his  godsend,  as  he  named 
him,  to  talk  over,  and  bring  into  form  his  evidence,  and  all 
that  appertained  to  his  surrender — thus  leaving  Falkner 
with  his  adopted  child. 

Such  a  moment  repaid  for  much  ;  for  Elizabeth's  hopes 
were  high,  and  she  knelt  before  Falkner,  embracing  his 
knees,  thanking  Heaven  in  a  rapture  of  gratitude.  He  also 
was  thankful  ;  yet  mortification  and  wounded  pride  strug- 
gled in  his  heart  with  a  sense  of  gratitude  for  unhoped-for 
preservation.  His  haughty  spirit  rebelled  against  the  obli- 
gation he  owed  to  so  mean  a  man  as  Osborne.  It  required 
hours  of  meditation — of  reawakened  remorse  for  Alithea's 
fate — of  renewed  wishes  that  she  should  be  vindicated  be- 
fore all  the  world — of  remembered  love  for  the  devoted 
girl  at  his  feet,  to  bring  him  back  from  the  tumult  of  con- 


FALKNER.  291 

tending  passions,  to  the  fortitude  and  humility  which  he  at 
every  moment  strove  to  cultivate. 

Elizabeth's  sweet  voice  dispelled  such  storms,  and  re- 
warded him  for  the  serenity  he  at  last  regained.  It  was 
impossible  not  to  feel  sympathy  in  her  happiness,  and  joy 
in  possessing  the  affection  of  so  gentle,  yet  so  courageous 
and  faithful  a  heart.  Elizabeth's  happiness  was  even  more 
complete  when  she  left  him,  and  sat  in  her  solitary  room — 
there,  where  Gerard  had  so  lately  visited  her,  and  his  im- 
age, and  her  gratitude  towards  him  mingled  more  with  her 
thoughts  :  her  last  act  that  night  was  to  write  to  him,  to. 
tell  him  what  had  happened.  It  was  her  note  that  he  re- 
ceived at  Liverpool  on  the  eve  of  his  second  departure,  and 
which  had  changed  his  purpose.  He  had  immediately  set 
out  for  London  to  communicate  the  good  tidings  to  Lady 
Cecil. 


CHAPTER  XLVII. 

These  had  been  hours  of  sunshine  for  the  prisoner  and 
his  child,  such  as  seldom  visit  the  precincts  of  a  jail;  and 
soon,  too  soon,  they  changed,  and  the  usual  gloom  returned 
to  the  abode  of  suffering.  In  misfortune  various  moods  as- 
sail us.  At  first  we  are  struck,  stunned,  and  overwhelmed; 
then  the  elastic  spirit  rises ;  it  tries  to  shape  miseiy  in  its 
own  way ;  it  adapts  itself  to  it ;  it  finds  unknown  consola- 
tions arise  out  of  circumstances  which,  in  moments  of  pros- 
perity, were  unregarded.  But  this  temper  of  mind  is  not 
formed  for  endurance.  As  a  sick  person  finds  comfort  in  a 
new  posture  at  first,  but  after  a  time  the  posture  becomes 
restrained  and  wearisome  ;  thus,  after  mustering  fortitude, 
patience,  the  calm  spirit  of  philosophy,  and  the  tender  one 
of  piety,  and  finding  relief,  suddenly  the  heart  rebels,  its 
old  desires  and  old  habits  recur,  and  we  are  the  more  dis- 
satisfied from  being  disappointed  in  those  modes  of  support 
in  which  we  trusted. 

There  was  a  perpetual  struggle  in  Falkner's  heart.  Ha- 
tred of  life,  pride,  a  yearning  for  libert}'-,  and  a  sore,  quick 
spirit  of  impatience  for  all  the  bars  and  forms  that  stood  be- 
tween him  and  it,  swelled  like  a  tide  in  his  soul.  He  hated 
himself  for  having  brought  himself  thus  low  ;  he  was  angry 
that  he  had  exposed  Elizabeth  to  such  a  scene  ;  he  reviled 
his  enemies  in  his  heart ;  he  accused  destiny.  Then,  again, 
if  he  but  shut  his  eyes — the  stormy  river,  the  desolate 
sands,  and  the  one  fair  being  dead  at  his  feet,  presented 
themselves,  and  remorse,  like  a  wind,  drove  back  the  flood. 
N2 


292  FALKNER. 

He  felt  that  he  had  deserved  it  all,  that  he  had  himself 
woven  the  chain  of  circumstances  which  he  called  his  fate, 
while  his  innocence  of  the  crime  brought  against  him  im- 
parted a  lofty  spirit  of  fortitude,  and  even  of  repose. 

Elizabeth,  with  an  angel's  love,  watched  the  changes  of 
his  temper.  Her  sensibility  was  often  wounded  by  his  suf- 
ferings ;  but  her  benign  disposition  was  so  fertile  of  com- 
passion and  forbearance,  that  her  own  mood  was  never  ir- 
ritated by  finding  her  attempts  to  console  fruitless.  She 
listened  meekly  when  his  overladen  heart  spent  itself  in 
invectives  against  the  whole  system  of  life ;  or,  catching  a 
favourable  moment,  she  strove  to  raise  his  mind  to  nobler 
and  purer  thoughts — unobtrusive,  but  never  weary — eagerly 
gathering  all  good  tidings,  banishing  the  ill ;  her  smiles,  her 
tears,  her  cheerfulness,  or  calm  sadness,  by  turns  relieved 
and  comforted  him. 

Winter  came  upon  them.  It  was  wild  and  drear.  Their 
abode,  far  in  the  north  of  the  island,  was  cold  beyond  their 
experience,  the  dark  prison-walls  were  whitened  by  snow, 
the  bars  of  their  windows  were  laden ;  Falkner  looked  out, 
the  snow  drifted  against  his  face,  one  peep  at  the  dusky 
sky  was  all  that  was  allowed  him ;  he  thought  of  the  wide 
steppes  of  Russia,  the  swift  sledges,  and  how  he  longed  for 
freedom  !  Elizabeth,  as  she  walked  home  through  the  frost 
and  sleet,  gave  a  sigh  for  the  soft  seasons  of  Greece,  and 
felt  that  a  double  winter  gathered  round  her  steps. 

Day  by  day,  time  passed  on.  Each  evening  returning  to 
her  solitary  fireside,  she  thought,  "  Another  is  gone,  the 
time  draws  near;"  she  shuddered,  despite  her  conviction 
that  the  trial  would  be  the  signal  for  the  liberation  of  Falk- 
ner ;  she  saw  the  barriers  time  had  placed  between  him  and 
fate  fall  ofl^"  one  by  one  with  terror ;  January  and  February 
passed,  March  had  come — the  first  of  March,  the  very 
month  when  all  was  to  be  decided,  arrived.  Poor  tempest- 
tossed  voyagers !  would  the  wished-for  port  be  gained —  ' 
should  they  ever  exchange  the  uncertain  element  of  danger 
for  the  firm  land  of  security  1 

It  was  on  the  first  of  March  that,  returning  home  in  the 
evening,  she  found  a  letter  on  her  table  from  Neville.  Poor 
Elizabeth!  she  loved  with  tenderness  and  passion — and  yet 
how  few  of  the  fairy  thoughts  and  visions  of  love  had  been 
hers — love  with  her  was  mingled  with  so  dire  a  tragedy, 
such  real  oppressive  griefs,  that  its  charms  seemed  crimes 
against  her  benefactor  ;  yet  now,  as  she  looked  on  the  let- 
ter, and  thought,  "//wn  A«;?i,"  the  rapture  of  love  stole  over 
her,  her  eyes  were  dimmed  by  the  agitation  of  dehght,  and 
the  knowledge  that  she  was  loved  suspended  every  pain, 
filling  her  with  soft  triumph,  and  thrilling,  though  vague  ex- 
pectation. 

She  broke  the  seal — there  was  an  inner  envelope  directed 


FALKNER.  298 

to  Miss  Raby — and  she  smiled  at  the  mere  thought  of  the 
pleasure  Gerard  must  have  felt  in  tracing  that  name — the 
seal,  as  he  regarded  it,  of  their  future  union ;  but  when  she 
unfolded  the  sheet,  and  glanced  down  the  page,  her  atten- 
tion was  riveted  by  other  emotions.     Thus  Neville  wrote  : — 

"  My  own  sweet  Elizabeth,  I  write  in  haste,  but  doubt  is 
so  painful,  and  tidings  fly  so  quickly,  that  I  hope  you  will 
hear  first  by  means  of  these  lines  the  new  blow  fate  has 
prepared  for  us.  My  father  lies  dangerously  ill.  This,  I 
fear,  will  again  delay  the  trial — occasion  prolonged  impris- 
onment— and  keep  you  still  a  martyr  to  those  duties  you  so 
courageously  fulfil.  We  must  have  patience.  We  are  im- 
potent to  turn  aside  irrevocable  decrees,  yet  when  we  think 
how  much  hangs  on  the  present  moment  of  time,  the  heart 
— my  weak  heart  at  least — is  wrung  by  anguish. 

"  I  cannot  tell  whether  Sir  Boyvill  is  aware  of  his  situa- 
tion— he  is  too  much  oppressed  by  illness  for  conversation ; 
the  sole  desire  he  testifies  is  to  have  me  near  him.  Once 
or  twice  he  has  pressed  my  hand,  and  looked  on  me  with 
affection.  I  never  remember  to  have  received  before  such 
testimonials  of  paletnal  love.  Such  is  the  force  of  the  nat- 
ural tie  between  us,  that  I  am  deeply  moved,  and  would  not 
leave  him  for  the  whole  world.  My  poor  father ! — he  has 
no  friend,  no  relative  but  me ;  and  now,  after  so  much 
haughtiness  and  disdain,  he,  in  his  need,  is  like  a  little  child, 
reduced  to  feel  his  only  support  in  natural  affections.  His 
unwonted  gentleness  subdues  my  soul.  Oh,  who  would 
rule  by  power,  when  so  much  more  absolute  a  tyranny  is 
established  through  love  ! 

"  Sophia  is  very  kind — but  she  is  not  his  child.  The 
hour  approaches  when  we  should  be  at  Carlisle.  What 
will  be  the  result  of  our  absence — what  the  event  of  this 
illness  1  1  am  perplexed  and  agitated  beyond  measure ;  in 
a  day  or  two  all  will  be  decided :  if  Sir  Boyvill  becomes 
convalescent,  still  it  may  be  long  before  he  can  undertake 
so  distant  a  journey. 

"  Do  not  fear  that  for  a  moment  I  shall  neglect  your  in- 
terests ;  they  are  my  own.  For  months  I  have  lived  only 
on  the  expectation  of  the  hour  when  you  should  be  liber- 
ated from  the  horrors  of  your  present  position ;  and  the  an- 
ticipation of  another  delay  is  torture.  Even  your  courage 
must  sink,  your  patience  have  an  end.  Yet  a  little  longer, 
my  Elizabeth,  support  yourself,  let  not  your  noble  heart  fail 
at  this  last  hour,  this  last  attack  of  adversity.  Be  all  that 
you  have  ever  been,  firm,  resigned,  and  generous ;  in  your 
excellence  I  place  all  my  trust.  I  will  write  again  very 
speedily,  and  if  you  can  imagine  any  service  that  I  can  do 
you,  command  me  to  the  utmost.  1  write  by  my  father's 
bedside ;  he  does  not  sleep,  but  he  is  still.  Farewell — I 
love  you ;  in  those  words  is  summed  a  life  of  weal  or  wo 
25* 


294  FALKIVER. 

for  me  and  for  you  also,  my  Elizabeth !  Do  not  call  me 
selfish  for  feeling  thus — even  here." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  thought  Ehzabeth ;  "  busy  fingers  are  weav- 
ing— the  web  of  destiny  is  unrolling  fast — we  may  not  think, 
nor  hope,  nor  scarcely  breathe — we  must  await  the  hour — 
death  is  doing  his  work — what  victim  will  he  select]" 

The  intelligence  in  this  letter,  communicated  on  the  mor- 
row to  all  concerned  in  the  coming  trial,  filled  each  with 
anxiety.  In  a  very  few  days  the  assizes  would  commence  ; 
Falkner's  name  stood  first  on  the  list — delay  was  bitter, 
yet  he  must  prepare  for  delay,  and  arm  himself  anew  with 
resolution.  Several  anxious  days  passed — Elizabeth  re- 
ceived no  other  letter — she  felt  that  Sir  Boyvill's  danger 
was  protracted,  that  Gerard  was  still  in  uncertainty — the 
post  hour  now  became  a  moment  of  hope  and  dread — it 
was  a  sort  of  harassing  inquietude  hard  to  endure ;  at 
length  a  few  lines  from  Lady  Cecil  arrived — they  brought 
no  comfort — all  remained  in  the  same  state. 

The  assizes  began — on  the  morrow  the  judges  were  ex- 
pected in  Carhsle — and  already  all  that  bustle  commenced 
that  bore  the  semblance  of  gayety  in  the  rest  of  the  town, 
but  which  was  so  mournful  and  fearful  in  the  jail.  There 
were  several  capital  cases ;  as  Elizabeth  heard  them  dis- 
cussed, her  blood  ran  cold — she  hated  life,  and  all  its  ad- 
juncts :  to  know  of  misery  she  could  not  alleviate  was  al- 
ways saddening  ;  but  to  feel  the  squalid,  mortal  misery  of 
such  a  place  and  hour  brought  home  to  her  own  heart,  was 
a  wretchedness  beyond  all  expression,  poignant  and  hid- 
eous. 

The  day  that  the  judges  arrived,  Elizabeth  presented 
herself  in  Falkner's  cell — a  letter  in  her  hand — her  first 
words  announced  good  tidings  ;  yet  she  was  agitated,  tear- 
ful— something  strange  and  awful  had  surely  betided.  It  was 
a  letter  from  Neville  that  she  held,  and  gave  to  Falkner  to 
read. 

"  I  shall  soon  be  in  Carlisle,  my  dearest  friend,  but  this 
letter  will  outspeed  me,  and  bring  you  the  first  intelligence 
of  my  poor  father's  death.  Thank  God,  I  did  my  duty  by 
him  to  the  last — thank  God,  he  died  in  peace — in  peace  with 
me  and  the  whole  world.  The  uneasiness  of  pain  yielded 
at  first  to  torpor,  and  thus  we  feared  he  would  die  ;  but  be- 
fore his  death  he  recovered  himself  an  hour  or  two,  and 
though  languid  and  feeble,  his  mind  was  clear.  How  little, 
dear  Elizabeth,  do  we  know  of  our  fellow-creatures — each 
shrouded  in  the  cloak  of  manner — that  cloak  of  various 
dies — displays  little  of  the  naked  man  within.  We  thought 
my  father  vain,  selfish,  and  cruel — he  was  all  this,  but  he 
was  something  else  that  we  knew  not  of — he  was  generous, 
humane,  humble — these  qualities  he  hid  as  if  they  had  been 
vices — he  struggled  with  them—pride  prevented  hira  from 


FALKNER.  S96 

recognising  them  as  the  redeeming  points  of  a  fauhy  nature ; 
he  despised  himself  for  feeUng  them,  until  he  was  on  his 
deathbed. 

"  Then,  in  broken  accents,  he  asked  me,  his  only  son,  to 
pardon  his  mistakes  and  cruelties — he  asked  me  to  forgive 
him,  in  my  dear  mother's  name — he  acknowleged  his  in- 
justices towards  her.  '  Would  that  I  might  live,'  he  said  ; 
'  for  my  awakened  conscience  urges  me  to  repair  a  portion 
of  the  evils  1  have  caused — but  it  is  too  late.  Strange  that 
I  should  never  have  given  ear  to  the  whisperings  of  justice 
— though  they  were  often  audible — till  now,  when  there  is 
no  help !  Yet  is  it  so  1  cannot  some  reparation  be  made  ? 
There  is  one' — and  as  he  spoke  he  half  raised  himself,  and 
some  of  the  wonted  fire  flashed  from  his  glazed  eye — but 
he  sunk  back  again,  saying,  in  a  low  but  distinct  voice, 
•  Falkner — Rupert  Falkner — he  is  innocent,  I  know  and  feel 
his  innocence — yet  I  have  striven  to  bring  him  to  the  death. 
Let  me  record  my  belief  that  his  tale  is  true,  and  that  Ali- 
thea  died  the  victim  of  her  own  heroism,  not  by  his  hand. 
Gerard,  remember,  report  these  words — save  him — his  suf- 
ferings have  been  great — promise  me — that  I  may  feel  that 
God  and  Alithea  will  forgive  me,  as  I  forgive  him;  I  act 
now  as  your  mother  would  have  had  me  act ;  I  act  to  please 
her.' 

"  I  speak  it  without  shame,  my  eyes  ran  over  with  tears, 
and  this  softening  of  a  proud  heart  before  the  remembered 
excellence  of  one  so  long  dead,  so  long  thought  of  with 
harshness  and  resentment,  was  the  very  triumph  of  the 
good  spirit  of  the  world ;  yet  tears  were  all  the  thanks 
I  could  give  for  several  minutes.  He  saw  that  I  was  moved 
— but  his  strength  was  fast  leaving  him,  and  pressing  my 
hand  and  murmuring,  '  My  last  duty  is  now  performed — I 
will  sleep,'  he  turned  away  his  head ;  he  never  spoke  more, 
except  to  articulate  my  name,  and  once  or  twice,  as  his 
lips  moved,  and  I  bent  down  to  listen,  I  heard  the  name  of 
my  mother  breathed  at  the  latest  hour. 

"  I  cannot  write  more — the  trial  will  take  place,  I  am 
told,  immediately — before  the  funeral.  I  shall  be  in  Car- 
lisle— all  will  go  well,  dear  Elizabeth — and  when  we  meet 
again,  happier  feelings  will  be  ours.  God  bless  you  now 
and  always,  as  you  deserve." 


296  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 


All  things  now  assumed  an  anxious  aspect ;  all  was  hur- 
rying to  a  conclusion.  To-morrow  the  trial  was  to  come  on. 
"  Security"  is  not  a  word  for  mortal  man  to  use,  more  es- 
pecially when  the  issue  of  an  event  depends  on  the  opinions 
and  actions  of  his  fellow-creatures.  Falkner's  acquittal 
was  probable,  but  not  certain ;  even  if  the  impression  went 
in  general  in  his  favour,  a  single  juryman  might  hold  out, 
and  perverseness,  added  to  obstinacy,  would  turn  the  scale 
against  him.  Sickening  fears  crept  over  Elizabeth's  heart; 
she  endeavoured  to  conceal  them  ;  she  endeavoured  to  smile 
and  repeat,  "  Tiiis  is  our  last  day  of  bondage." 

Falkner  cast  no  thought  upon  the  worst — innocence  shut 
out  fear.  He  could  not  look  forward  to  the  ignominy  of 
such  a  trial  without  acute  suffering;  yet  there  was  an  aus- 
tere composure  in  his  countenance,  that  spoke  of  foriitude 
and  reliance  on  a  power  beyond  the  limit  of  human  influ- 
ence. His  turn  had  come  to  encourage  Elizabeth.  There 
was  a  nobleness  and  simplicity  of  character,  common  to 
both,  that  made  them  very  intelligible  to  each  other.  Falk- 
ner, however,  had  long  been  nourishing  secret  thoughts 
and  plans,  of  which  he  had  made  no  mention,  till  now,  the 
crisis  impending,  he  thought  it  best  to  lift  a  portion  of  the 
veil  that  covered  the  future. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  in  reply  to  Elizabeth,  "  to-morrow  will 
be  the  last  day  of  slavery  ;  I  regain  my  human  privileges 
after  to-morrow,  and  I  shall  not  be  slow  to  avail  myself  of 
them.  My  first  act  will  be  to  quit  this  country.  I  have 
never  trod  its  soil  but  to  find  misery ;  after  to-morrow  I 
leave  it  for  ever." 

Elizabeth  started,  and  looked  inquiringly :  were  her 
wishes,  her  destiny  to  have  no  influence  over  his  plans?  he 
knew  of  the  hope,  the  affection,  that  rendered  England  dear 
to  her.  Falkner  took  her  hand.  "  You  will  join  me  here- 
after, dearest ;  but  you  will  in  the  first  instance  yield  to  my 
request,  and  consent  to  a  separation  for  a  time." 

"Never!"  said  Elizabeth;  "'you  cannot  deceive  me  ;  you 
act  thus  for  my  purposes,  and  not  your  own,  and  you  mis- 
conceive everything.     We  will  never  part." 

"  Daughters  when  they  marry,"  observed  Falkner,  "leave 
father,  mother,  all,  and  follow  the  fortunes  of  their  husbands. 
You  must  submit  to  the  common  law  of  human  society." 

"  Do  not  ask  me  to  reason  with  you  and  refute  your  ar- 
giunents,"  replied  Elizabeth ;  "  our  position  is  different 
from  that' of  any  other  parent  and  child.    I  vnll  not  say  I 


PALKNER. 

owe  you  more  than  daughter  ever  owed  father — perhaps  the 
sacred  tie  of  blood  may  stand  in  place  of  the  obligations  you 
have  heaped  on  me  ;  but  I  will  not  reason ;  I  cannot  leave 
you.  Right  or  wrong  in  the  eyes  of  others,  my  own  heart 
would  perpetually  reproach  me.  I  should  image  your  soli- 
tary wanderings,  your  lonely  hours  of  sickness  and  suffer- 
ing, and  my  peace  of  mind  would  be  destroyed." 

"  It  is  true,"  said  Falkner,  "  that  I  am  more  friendless 
than  most  men  ;  yet  I  am  not  so  weak  and  womanish  that  I 
need  perpetual  support.  Your  society  is  dear  to  me,  dearer, 
God,  who  reads  my  heart,  knows,  than  liberty  or  life  ;  I 
shall  return  to  that  society,  and  again  enjoy  it ;  but,  for  a 
.  time,  do  not  fear  but  that  I  can  form  such  transitory  ties 
as  will  prevent  solitary  suffering.  Men  and  women  abound 
who  will  feel  benevolently  towards  the  lonely  stranger ; 
money  purchases  respect;  blameless  manners  win  kindness. 
I  shall  find  friends  in  my  need  if  I  desire  it,  and  I  shall  re- 
turn at  last  to  you." 

"My  dearest  father,"  said  Elizabeth,  "you  cannot  deceive 
me.  I  penetrate  your  motives,  but  you  wholly  mistake.  You 
would  force  me  also  to  mistake  your  character,  but  I  know 
you  too  well.  You  never  form  transitory  friendships ;  you 
take  no  pleasure  in  the  ordinary  run  of  human  intercourse. 
You  inquire  ;  you  seek  for  instruction ;  you  endeavour  to 
confer  benefits  ;  but  you  have  no  happiness  except  such  as 
you  derive  from  your  heart,  and  that  is  not  easily  impressed. 
Did  you  not  for  many  long  years  continue  faithful  to  one 
idea — adhere  to  one  image — devote  yourself  to  one,  one 
only,  despite  all  that  separated  you  ]  Did  hot  the  impedi- 
ment you  found  to  the  fulfilment  of  your  visions  blight  your 
whole  hfe,  and  bring  you  herel  Pardon  me  if  I  allude  to 
these  things.  I  cannot  be  to  you  what  she  was,  but  you 
can  no  more  banish  me  from  your  heart  and  imagination 
than  you  could  her.  I  know  that  you  cannot.  We  are  not 
parent  and  child,"  she  continued,  playfully,  "  but  we  have  a 
strong  resemblance  on  one  point — fidelity  is  our  character- 
istic ;  we  will  not  speak  of  this  to  others,  they  might  think 
that  we  boasted.  I  am  not  quite  sure  that  it  is  not  a  defect ; 
at  least  in  some  cases,  as  with  you  it  proved  a  misfortune. 
To  me  it  can  never  be  such :  it  repays  itself.  I  cannot  leave 
you,  whatever  befalls.  If  Gerard  Neville  is  hereafter  lost  to 
me,  I  cannot  help  it ;  it  would  kill  me  to  fall  off  from  you. 
I  must  follow  the  natural,  the  irresistible  bent  of  my  char- 
acter. 

"  To-morrow,  the  day  after  to-morrow,  we  will  speak 
more  of  this.  What  is  necessary  for  your  happmess,  be 
assured,  I  will  fulfil  without  repining  ;  but  now,  dearest 
father,  let  us  not  speak  of  the  future  now ;  my  heart  is  too 
full  of  the  present — the  future  appears  to  me  a  dream  never 
to  be  arrived  at.    Oh,  how  more  than  blessed  I  shall  be  when 


^298  PALKNER. 

the  future,  the  long  future,  shall  grow  into  interest  and  im- 
portance !" 

They  were  interrupted.  One  person  came  in,  and  then 
another,  and  the  appalling  details  of  the  morrow  effectually 
banished  all  thoughts  of  plans,  the  necessity  of  which  Falk- 
ner  wished  to  impress  on  his  young  companion.  He  also 
was  obhged  to  give  himself  up  to  present  cares.  He  re- 
ceived all,  he  talked  to  all,  with  a  serious  but  unembarrassed 
air :  while  Elizabeth  sat  shuddering  by,  wiping  away  her 
tears  unseen,  and  turning  her  dimmed  eyes  from  one  to 
the  other,  pale  and  miserable.  We  have  fortitude  and  res- 
ignation for  ourselves ;  but  when  those  beloved  are  in 
peril  we  can  only  weep  and  pray.  Sheltered  in  a  dusky 
corner,  a  httle  retreated  behind  Falkner,  she  watched,  she 
listened  to  all,  and  her  heart  almost  broke.  "  Leave  him! 
after  this  leave  him  !"  she  thought,  "  a  prey  to  such  mem- 
ories 1  Oh,  may  all  good  angels  desert  rae  when  I  become 
so  vile  a  wretch  !" 

The  hour  came  when  they  must  part.  She  was  not  to 
see  him  on  the  morrow,  until  the  trial  was  over ;  for  her 
presence  during  the  preliminary  scenes  was  neither  fitting 
nor  practicable.  Already  great  indulgences  had  been  granted 
to  the  prisoner,  arising  from  his  peculiar  position,  the  great 
length  of  time  since  the  supposed  crime  had  been  com- 
mitted, and  the  impression,  now  become  general,  that  he 
was  innocent.  But  this  had  limits — the  morrow  was  to  de- 
cide all,  and  send  him  forth  free  and  guiltless,  or  doom  him. 
to  all  the  horrors  of  condemnation  and  final  sufl^ering. 

Their  parting  was  solemn.  Neither  indulged  in  grief.* 
Falkner  felt  composed — Elizabeth  endeavoured  to  assume 
tranquillity  ;  but  her  lips  quivered,  and  she  could  not  speak  ; 
it  was  like  separating  not  to  meet  for  years  ;  a  few  short 
hours,  and  she  would  look  again  upon  his  face — but  how 
much  would  happen  in  the  interval  I  liow  mighty  a  change 
have  occurred  !  What  agony  would  both  have  gone  through ! 
the  one  picturing,  the  other  enduring  the  scene  of  the  mor- 
row ;  the  gaze  of  thousands — the  accusation — the  evidence 
— the  defence — the  verdict — each  of  these  bearing  with  it 
to  the  well-born  and  refined  a  barbed  dart,  pregnant  with 
thriUing  poison  ;  ignominy  added  to  danger.  How  Elizabeth 
longed  to  express  to  the  assembled  world  the  honour  in  which 
she  held  him,  whom  all  looked  on  as  overwhelmed  with 
disgrace  ;  how  she  yearned  to  declare  the  glory  she  took  in 
the  ties  that  bound  them,  and  the  affection  that  she  bore  ! 
She  must  be  mute — but  she  felt  all  this  to  bursting ;  and 
her  last  words,  "  Best  of  men  !  excellent,  upright,  noble, 
generous,  God  will  preserve  you  and  restore  you  to  me  !" 
expressed  in  some  degree  the  swelling  emotions  of  her 
soul.  They  parted.  Night  and  silence  gathered  round 
Falkner's  pillow.    With  stoical  firmness  he  banished  retro- 


FALKNER.  299 

Bpect — he  banished  care.  He  laid  his  hopes  and  fears  at  the 
feet  of  that  Almighty  power,  who  holds  earth  and  all  it  con- 
tains in  the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  he  would  trouble  him- 
self no  more  concerning  the  inevitable  though  unknown  de- 
cree. His  thoughts  were  at  first  solemn  and  calm  ;  and 
then,  as  the  human  mind  can  never,  even  in  torture,  fix 
itself  unalterably  on  one  point,  milder  and  more  pleasing 
reveries  presented  themselves.  He  thought  of  himself  as 
a  wild  yet  not  worthless  schoolboy — he  remembered  the 
cottage  porch  clustered  over  with  odoriferous  parasites, 
under  whose  shadow  sat-the  sick,  pale  lady,  with  her  starry 
eyes  and  wise  lessons,  and  her  radiant  daughter,  whose  soft 
hand  he  held  as  they  both  nestled  close  at  her  feet.  He 
recalled  his  wanderings  with  that  daughter  over  hill  and 
dale,  when  their  steps  were  light,  and  their  hearts  unbur- 
dened with  a  care,  soared  to  that  heaven  which  ber  blessed 
spirit  had  already  reached.  Oh,  what  is  life,  that  these 
dreams  of  youth  and  innocence  should  have  conducted  her 
to  an  untimely  grave — him  to  a  felon's  cell !  The  thought 
came  with  a  sharp  pang ;  again  he  banished  it,  and  the  land 
of  Greece,  his  perils,  and  his  wanderings  with  Elizabeth  on 
the  shores  of  Zante,  now  replaced  his  other  memories. 
He  then  bore  a  burden  on  his  heart,  which  veiled  with  dark 
crape  the  glories  of  a  sunny  climate,  the  heart-cheering 
tenderness  of  his  adopted  child — tliis  was  less  bitter,  this 
meeting  of  fate,  this  atonement.  Sleep  crept  over  him  at 
last ;  and  such  is  the  force  of  innocence,  that  though  a  cloud 
of  agony  hung  over  his  awakening,  yet  he  slept  peacefully 
on  the  eve  of  his  trial. 

Towards  morning  his  sleep  became  less  tranquil.  He 
moved — he  groaned — then,  opening  his  eyes,  he  started  up, 
struggling  to  attain  full  consciousness  of  where  he  was,  and 
wherefore.  He  had  been  dreaming — and  he  asked  himself 
what  had  been  the  subject  of  his  dreams.  Was  it  Greece 
— or  the  dreary  waste  shores  of  Cumberland]  And  why 
did  that  fair  lingering  shape  beckon  him  ]  Was  it  Alithea 
or  Elizabeth  ?  Before  these  confused  doubts  could  be  sol- 
ved, he  recognised  the  walls  of  the  cell,  and  saw  the  shad- 
ow of  the  bars  of  his  windows  on  the  curtain  spread  be- 
fore it.  It  was  morning — the  morning — where  would  an- 
other sun  find  him  ! 

He  rose  and  drew  aside  the  curtain — and  there  were  the 
dark,  high  walls — weather-stained  and  huge  ;  clear,  but  sun- 
less daylight  was  spread  over  each  object — it  penetrated 
every  nook,  and  yet  was  devoid  of  cheer.  There  is  indeed 
something  inexpressibly  desolate  in  the  sight  of  the  early, 
gray,  chill  dawn  dissipating  the  shadows  of  night,  when  the 
day  which  it  liarbingers  is  to  bring  misery.  Night  is  a 
cloak — a  shelter — a  defence — all  men  sleep  at  night — the 
law  sleeps,  and  its  dread  ministrants  are  harmless  in  their 


300  FALKNER. 

beds,  hushed  like  cradled  children.  "  Even  now  they  sleep," 
thought  Falkner,  "  pillowed  and  curtained  in  luxury — but 
day  is  come,  and  they  will  soon  resume  their  offices — and 
drag  me  before  them — and  wherefore  1 — because  it  is  day— 
because  it  is  Wednesday — because  names  have  been  given  to 
portions  of  time,  which  otherwise  might  be  passed  over  and 
forgotten." 

To  the  surgeon's  eye  a  human  body  sometimes  presents 
itself  merely  as  a  mass  of  bones,  muscles,  and  arteries— 
though  that  human  body  may  contain  a  soul  to  emulate 
Shakspeare — and  thus  there  are  moments  when  the  wretch- 
ed dissect  the  forms  of  life — and  contemplating  only  the 
outward  semblance  of  events,  wonder  how  so  much  power 
of  misery,  or  the  reverse,  resides  in  what  is  after  all  but 
sleeping  or  waking — walking  here  or  walking  there — seeing 
one  fellow-creature  instead  of  another.  Such  were  the 
morbid  sensations  that  absorbed  Falkner  as  day  grew  clearer 
and  clearer — the  narrow  court  more  gloomy  as  compared 
with  the  sky,  and  the  objects  in  his  cell  assumed  their  natu- 
ral colour  and  appearances.  '•  All  asleep,"  he  again  thought, 
"  except  I,  the  sufferer ;  and  does  my  own  Elizabeth  sleep  ? 
Heaven  grant  it,  and  guard  her  slumbers !  May  those  dear 
eyes  long  remain  closed  in  peace  upon  this  miserable  day !" 

He  dressed  himself  long  before  any  one  in  the  prison 
(and  jailers  are  early  risers)  was  awake  ;  at  last  there  were 
steps  in  the  passage — bolts  were  drawn  and  voices  heard. 
These  familiar  sounds  recalled  him  to  actual  life,  and  ap- 
proaching, inevitable  events.  His  haughty  soul  awoke 
again — a  dogged  pride  steeled  his  heart — he  remembered 
the  accusation — the  execration  in  which  he  believed  him- 
self to  be  held — and  his  innocence.  "  Retribution  or  atone- 
ment— I  am  ready  to  pay  it  as  it  is  demanded  of  me  for 
Alithea's  sake — but  the  injustice  of  man  is  not  lessened  on 
this  account ;  henceforth  I  am  to  be  stamped  with  ignominy 
— and  yet  in  what  am  I  worse  than  my  fellows  ]  at  least 
they  shall  not  see  that  my  spirit  bends  before  them." 

He  assumed  cheerfulness,  and  bore  all  the  preliminaries 
of  preparation  with  apparent  carelessness  ;  sometimes  his 
eagle  eye  flashed  fire — sometimes  fixed  on  vacancy,  a  whole 
life  of  memories  passed  across  his  mental  vision ;  but  there 
was  no  haste,  no  trepidation,  no  faltering — he  never  thought 
of  danger  or  of  death — innocence  sustained  him.  The  ig- 
nominy of  the  present  was  all  that  he  felt  that  he  had  to 
endure  and  master — that,  and  the  desolation  beyond,  when 
branded  through  life  as  he  beheved  he  should  be,  even  by 
acquittal,  he  was  henceforth  to  be  looked  on  as  an  outcast. 

At  length  he  was  led  forth  to  trial — pride  in  his  heart — 
resolution  in  his  eye ;  he  passed  out  of  the  gloomy  portal 
of  the  prison,  and  entered  the  sunlit  street — houses  were 
around ;  but  through  an  opening  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 


FALKNER.  301 

country — uplands,  and  lawny  fields,  and  tree-crested  hills — 
the  work  of  God  himself.  Sunshine  rested  on  the  scene — 
one  used  to  liberty  had  regarded  with  contempt  the  re- 
stricted view  presented  by  the  opening ;  but  to  the  prisoner, 
who  for  months  had  only  seen  his  prison-walls,  it  seemed 
as  if  the  creation  lay  unrolled  in  its  majesty  before  liim. 
What  was  man  in  comparison  with  the  power  that  upheld 
the  earth  and  bade  the  sun  to  shine  ?  And  man  was  to 
judge  him  ?  What  mockery !  Man  and  all  his  works  were 
but  a  plaything  in  the  hands  of  Omnipotence,  and  to  that 
Falkner  submitted  his  destiny.  He  rose  above  the  degra- 
ding circumstances  around  him  ;  he  looked  down  upon  his 
fate — a  real,  a  lofty  calm  at  last  possessed  his  soul ;  he  felt 
that  naught  said  or  done  that  day  by  his  fellow-creatures 
could  move  him ;  his  reliance  was  elsewhere — it  rested  on 
his  own  innocence,  and  his  intimate  sense  that  he  was  in 
no  more  danger  now  than  if  sheltered  in  the  farthest, 
darkest  retreat,  unknown  to  man ;  he  walked  as  if  sur- 
rounded by  an  atmosphere  which  no  storms  from  without 
could  penetrate. 

He  entered  the  court  with  a  serene  brow,  and  so  much 
dignity  added  to  a  look  that  expressed  such  entire  peace  of 
conscience,  that  every  one  who  beheld  him  became  prepos- 
sessed in  his  favour.  His  distinct,  calm  voice  declaring 
himself  "  Not  Guilty  ;"  the  confidence,  untinged  by  vaunt- 
ing, with  which  he  uttered  the  customary  appeal  to  God 
and  his  country,  excited  admiration  at  first,  and  then,  when 
a  second  sentiment  could  be  felt,  the  most  heart-moving 
pity.  Such  a  man,  so  unstained  by  vice,  so  raised  above 
crime,  had  never  stood  there  before ;  accustomed  to  the 
sight  of  vulgar  rogues  or  hardened  ruffians,  wonder  was 
mingled  witli  a  certain  self-examination,  Avhich  made  each 
man  feel  that,  if  justice  were  done,  he  probably  deserved 
more  to  be  in  that  dock  than  the  prisoner. 

And  then  they  remembered  that  he  stood  there  to  be  con- 
signed to  life  or  death,  as  the  jury  should  decide.  A 
breathless  interest  was  awakened,  not  only  in  the  specta- 
tors, but  even  in  those  hardened  by  habit  to  scenes  like 
this.  Every  customary  act  of  the  court  was  accompa- 
nied by  a  solemnity  unfelt  before.  The  feeling,  indeed, 
that  reigned  was  something  more  than  solemn ;  thirsting 
curiosity  and  eager  wonder  gave  way  before  thrilling  awe, 
to  think  that  that  man  might  be  condemned  to  an  ignomin- 
ious end. 

When  once  the  trial  had  be^un,  and  his  preliminary  part 
had  been  played,  Falkner  sat  down.  He  became,  to  all  ap- 
pearance, abstracted.  He  was,  indeed,  thinking  of  things 
more  painful  than  even  the  present  scene  ;  the  screams  and 
struggles  of  the  agonized  Alithea — her  last  sad  sleep  in  the 
hut  upon  the  shore — the  stranghng,  turbid  waves — her  wet, 
26 


302  FALKNER. 

lifeless  form — her  low,  unnamed  grave  dug  by  him ;  had 
these  been  atoned  for  by  long  years  of  remorse  and  misery, 
or  was  the  present  ignominy,  and  worse  that  might  ensue, 
fitting  punishment  ?  Be  it  as  it  might,  he  was  equal  to  the 
severest  blows,  and  ready  to  lay  down  a  life  in  compensa- 
tion for  that  of  which  he,  most  unintentionally,  and  yet 
most  cruelly,  had  deprived  her.  His  thoughts  were  not  re- 
called to  the  present  scene  till  a  voice  struck  his  ear,  so 
like  hers — did  the  dead  speak  1  Knit  up  as  he  was  to  the 
endurance  of  all,  he  trembled  from  head  to  foot ;  he  had 
been  so  far  away  from  that  place,  till  the  echo,  as  it  were, 
of  Alithea's  voice  recalled  him  ;  in  a  moment  he  recovered 
himself,  and  found  that  it  was  her  ^hild,  Gerard  Neville, 
who  was  giving  his  evidence. 

He  heard  the  son  of  his  victim  speak  of  him  as  innocent, 
and  a  thrill  of  thankfulness  entered  his  soul ;  he  smiled, 
and  hope  and  sympathy  with  his  fellow-creatures,  and  nat- 
ural softening  feelings,  replaced  the  gloomy  bitterness  and 
harshness  of  his  past  reflections.  He  felt  that  he  should  be 
acquitted,  and  that  it  became  him  to  impress  all  present  fa- 
vourably ;  it  became  him  to  conduct  himself  so  as  to  show 
his  confidence  in  the  justice  of  those  on  whom  his  fate  de- 
pended, and  at  once  to  assert  the  dignity  of  innocence. 
From  that  time  he  gave  himself  entirely  up  to  the  details  of 
the  trial ;  he  became  attentive,  and  not  the  less  calm  and 
resolute,  because  he  believed  that  his  own  exertions  would 
crown  the  hour  with  success.  The  spectators  saw  the 
change  in  him,  and  were  roused  to  double  interest.  The 
court  clock,  meanwhile,  kept  measure  of  the  time  that 
passed ;  the  hands  travelled  silently  on — another  turn,  and 
all  would  be  over — and  what  would  then  be  ? 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

Elizabeth  meanwhile  might  envy  the  resolution  that 
bore  him  through  these  appalling  scenes.  On  the  night 
after  leaving  him,  she  had  not  even  attempted  to  rest. 
Wrapped  in  a  shawl,  she  threw  herself  on  a  sofa,  and  told 
each  hour  during  the  livelong  night  ;  her  reveries  were 
wild,  vague,  and  exquisitely  painful.  In  the  morning  she 
tried  to  recall  her  faculties — she  remembered  her  conviction 
that  on  that  day  Falkner  would  be  hbcrated,  and  she 
dressed  herself  with  care,  that  she  might  welcome  him  with 
the  appearances  of  rejoicing.  She  expected  with  uncon- 
querable trepidation  the  hour  when  the  court  would  meet. 
Before  that  hour,  there  was  a  knock  at  her  door,  and  a  vis- 
iter was  announced  ;  it  was  Mrs,  Raby. 


FALKNER.  303 

It  was  indeed  a  solace  to  see  a  friendly  face  of  her  own 
sex — she  had  been  so  long  deprived  of  this  natural  support. 
Lady  Cecil  had  now  and  then  written  to  her — her  letters 
were  always  affectionate,  but  she  seemed  stunned  by  the 
magnitude  of  the  blow  that  had  fallen  on  her  friend,  and 
unable  to  proffer  consolation.  With  kindness  of  heart, 
sweetness  of  temper,  and  much  good  sense,  still  Lady  Ce- 
cil was  commonplace  and  worldly.  I\Irs.  Raby  was  of  a 
higher  order  of  being.  She  saw  things  too  exclusively 
through  one  medium — and  thus  the  scope  of  her  exertions 
was  narrowed ;  but  that  medium  was  a  pure  aiid  elevated 
one.  In  visiting  Elizabeth,  on  this  occasion,  she  soared 
beyond  it. 

Long  and  heavily  had  her  desertion  of  the  generous  girl 
weighed  on  her  conscience.  She  could  sympathize  in  her 
heroism,  and  warmly  approve — it  was  in  her  nature  to 
praise  and  to  reward  merit,  and  she  had  withheld  all  tribute 
from  her  abandoned  niece.  The  interests  of  her  religion, 
blended  with  those  of  family,  actuated  her,  and  while  resist- 
ing a  natural  impulse  of  generosity  she  fancied  that  she 
was  doing  right.  She  had  spoken  concerning  her  with  no 
one  but  Lady  Cecil ;  and  she,  while  she  praised  her  young 
friend,  forgot  to  speak  of  Falkner,  and  there  lay  the  stum- 
bling-block to  every  motion  in  her  favour. 

When  Elizabeth  repaired  to  Carlisle,  Mrs.  Raby  returned 
to  Belleforest.  She  scarcely  knew  how  to  introduce  the 
subject  to  her  father-in-law  ;  and  when  she  did,  he,  verging 
into  dotage,  only  said,  "  Act  as  you  please,  my  dear,  I  rely 
on  you  ;  act  for  the  honour  and  welfare  of  yourself  and  your 
children."  The  old  man  day  by  day  lost  his  powers  of 
memory  and  reason ;  by  the  time  of  the  trial  he  had  be- 
come a  mere  cipher.  Every  responsibility  fell  on  IMrs.  Ra- 
by ;  and  she,  eager  to  do  right  and  fearful  to  do  wrong, 
struggled  with  her  better  nature — wavered,  repented,  and 
yet  remained  inactive. 

Neville  strongly  reprobated  the  conduct  of  ever\'  one  to- 
wards Elizabeth.  He  had  never  seen  Mrs.  Raby,  but  she  in 
particular  he  regarded  with  tlie  strongest  disapprobation.  It 
so  happened,  that,  the  very  day  after  his  father's  death,  he 
was  at  Lady  Cecil's  when  Mrs.  Raby  called,  and,  by  an  ex- 
ception in  the  general  orders — made  for  Elizabeth's  sake — 
she  was  let  come  up.  Gerard  was  alone  in  the  drawing- 
room  when  she  was  announced — he  rose  hastil}',  meaning 
to  withdraw,  when  the  lady's  appearance  changed  his  entire 
mind.  We  ridicule  the  minutiae  of  the  science  of  physiog- 
nomy— but  who  is  not  open  to  first  impressions  ?  Neville 
was  prepossessed  favourably  by  Mrs.  Raby's  countenance  ; 
her  open,  thoughtful  brow,  her  large,  dark,  melancholy 
eyes,  her  dignity  of  manner,  joined  to  evident  marks  of 
strong  feeling,  at  once  showed  him  that  he  saw  a  woman 


304  FALKNER. 

capable  of  generous  sentiments  and  heroic  sacrifice.  He 
felt  that  there  must  have  been  some  grievous  error  in  So- 
phia's proceedings  not  to  have  awakened  more  active  inter- 
est in  her  mind.  While  he  was  forming  these  conclusions, 
Mrs.  Raby  was  struck  by  him  in  an  equally  favourable  man- 
ner. No  one  could  see  Gerard  Neville  without  feeling  that 
something  angehc — something  nobly  disinterested — un- 
earthly in  its  purity,  yet,  beyond  the  usual  nature  of  man, 
sympathetic,  animated  a  countenance  that  was  all  sensibil- 
ity, genius,  and  love.  In  a  minute  they  were  intimate 
friends.  Lady  Cecil,  hearing  that  they  were  together, 
would  not  interrupt  them  ;  and  their  conversation  was  long. 
Neville  related  his  first  acquaintance  with  Elizabeth  Raby 
— he  sketched  the  history  of  Falkner — he  described  him — 
and  the  scene  when  he  denounced  himself  as  the  destroyer 
of  Alithea.  He  declared  his  conviction  of  his  innocence — 
he  narrated  Sir  Boyvill's  dying  words.  Then  thi-y  both 
dwelt  on  his  long  imprisonment,  Elizabeth's  faithful  aff"ec- 
tion,  and  all  that  they  must  have  undergone — enough  to 
move  the  stoniest  heart.  Tears  rushed  into  Gerard's  eyes 
while  he  spoke — while  he  described  her  innocence,  her  in- 
tegrity, her  total  forgetfulness  of  self.  "  And  I  have  de- 
serted her,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Raby  ;  "  we  have  all  deserted 
her — this  must  not  continue.  You  go  to  Carlisle  to-mor- 
row for  the  trial ;  the  moment  it  is  over,  and  Mr.  Falkner 
acquitted — when  they  have  left  that  town,  where  all  is  so 
full  of  their  name  and  story,  I  will  see  her,  and  try  to  make 
up  for  my  past  neglect." 

•  "  It  will  be  too  late,"  said  Gerard ;  "  you  may  then  please 
yourself  by  admiring  one  so  superior  to  every  human  be- 
ing ;  but  you  will  not  benefit  her — Falkner  acquitted,  she 
will  have  risen  above  all  need  of  your  support.  Now  is 
the  hour  to  be  of  use.  The  very  hour  of  the  trial,  when 
this  unfortunate,  heroic  girl  is  thrown  entirely  on  herself — 
wounded  by  her  absolute  friendlessness,  yet  disdaining  to 
complain.  I  could  almost  wish  that  Sophia  would  disre- 
gard appearances,  and  hasten  to  her  side ;  although  her 
connexion  with  our  family  would  render  that  too  strange. 
But  you,  Mrs.  Raby,  what  should  stop  you  ]  she  is  your 
niece — how  vain  to  attempt  to  conceal  this  from  the  world 
— it  must  be  known — through  me,  I  fondly  trust,  it  will  be 
known — who  shall  claim  her  as  Miss  Raby — when,  as  Eliz- 
abeth Falkner,  I  could  never  see  her  more.  And,  when  it 
is  known,  will  not  your  desertion  be  censured  ?  Be  wise, 
be  generous — win  that  noblest  and  gentlest  heart  by  your 
kindness  now,  and  the  very  act  will  be  your  reward.  Hasten 
to  Carlisle ;  be  with  her  in  the  saddest  hour  that  ever  one 
so  young  and  innocent  passed  through." 

Mrs.  Raby  was  moved — she  was  persuaded  ;  she  felt  a  veil 
fall  from  before  her  eyes ;  she  saw  her  duty,  and  she  keenly 
felt  the  littleness  of  luer  past  desertion ;  she  did  not  hesi- 


PALKNER.  305 

tate  ;  and  now  that  she  perceived  how  gladly  her  niece  wel- 
comed her  in  this  hour  of  affliction,  and  how  gratefully  she 
appreciated  her  kindness,  she  found  in  the  approval  of  her 
own  heart  the  sweetest  recompense  for  her  disinterested- 
ness. 

Elizabeth's  swollen  eyes,  and  timid,  hurried  manner,  be- 
trayed how  she  had  passed  the  night,  and  how  she  was  pos- 
sessed by  the  most  agitating  fears.  Still  she  spoke  of  the 
acquittal  of  her  father,  as  she  took  pride  in  calling  him  at 
this  crisis,  as  certain ;  and  Mrs.  Raby,  taking  advantage  of 
this,  endeavoured  to  draw  her  mind  from  the  torture  of  rep- 
resenting to  herself  the  progress  of  the  scene  then  acting 
at  so  short  a  distance  from  them,  by  speaking  of  the  future. 
Elizabeth  mentioned  Falkner's  determination  to  quit  Eng- 
land, and  her  own  to  accompany  him ;  the  hinted  dissua- 
sion of  Mrs.  Raby  she  disregarded.  "  He  has  been  a  father 
to  me — I  am  his  child.  What  would  you  say  to  a  daughter 
who  deserted  her  father  in  adversity  and  sickness  ?  And, 
dear  Mrs.  Raby,  you  must  remember  that  my  father  is,  in 
spite  of  all  his  courage,  struck  by  disease  ;  accustomed  to 
my  attentions,  he  would  die  if  left  to  hirelings.  Deserted 
by  me,  he  would  sink  into  apathy  or  despair." 

Mrs.  Raby  listened — she  admired  the  enthusiasm,  and  yet 
the  softness,  the  sensibility,  and  firmness  of  her  young  kins- 
woman; but  she  was  pained:  many  ideas  assailed  her,  but 
she  would  not  entertain  them — they  were  too  wild  and  dan- 
gerous ;  and  yet  her  heart,  formed  for  generosity,  was 
tempted  to  trample  upon  the  suggestions  of  prudence  and 
the  qualms  of  bigotry.  To  give  diversion  to  her  thoughts, 
she  mentioned  Gerard  Neville.  A  blush  of  pleasure,  a 
smile  shown  more  in  the  eyes  than  on  the  lips,  mantled  over 
her  niece's  countenance.  She  spoke  of  him  as  of  a  being 
scarcely  earthly  in  his  excellence.  His  devotion  to  his 
mother  first,  and  lately  his  generosity  towards  her — his  res- 
olution to  go  to  America,  to  seek  Osborne,  for  her  sake  and 
the  sake  of  justice,  were  themes  for  eloquence ;  she  spoke 
with  warmth  and  truth.  "  Yet,  if  you  follow  Mr.  Falkner's 
fortunes,"  said  Mrs.  Raby,  "  you  will  see  him  no  more." 

"  I  cannot  believe  that,"  replied  Ehzabeth ;  "  yet,  if  it 
must  be  so,  I  am  resigned.  He  will  never  forget  me,  and  I 
shall  feel  that  I  am  worthy  of  him,  though  separated ;  bet- 
ter that,  than  to  remain  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  I  hold  honour- 
able and  good  ;  he  would  despise  me,  and  that  were  worse 
absence,  an  absence  of  the  heart  ten  thousand  times  more 
galling,  than  mere  distance  of  place — one  would  be  eternal 
and  irremediable,  the  other  easily  obviated  when  our  duties 
should  no  longer  clash.  I  go  with  my  father  because  he  is 
suflfering ;  Neville  may  join  us  because  he  is  innocent— he 
will  not,  I  feel  and  know,  either  forget  me  or  stay  away 
for  ever." 
26* 


306  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  L. 

While  they  were  conversing,  quick  footsteps  were  heard 
in  the  street  below.  Mrs.  Raby  had  succeeded  in  making 
the  time  pass  more  lightly  than  could  be  hoped ;  it  was 
three  o'clock — there  was  a  knock  at  the  door  of  the  house. 
Elizabeth,  breaking  off  abruptly,  turned  ashy  pale,  and 
clasped  her  hands  in  the  agony  of  expectation.  Osborne 
rushed  into  the  room.  "It  is  all  over!"  he  exclaimed; 
"  all  is  well !"  Tears  streamed  from  his  eyes  as  he  spoke 
and  ran  up  to  shake  hands  with  Elizabeth,  and  congratu- 
late her,  with  an  ardour  and  joy  that  contrasted  strangely 
with  the  frightened-looking  being  he  had  always  before 
shown  himself. 

"  Mr.  Falkner  is  acquitted — he  is  free — he  will  soon  be 
here  !  No  one  could  doubt  his  innocence  that  saw  him — no 
one  did  doubt  it — the  jury  did  not  even  retire."  Thus  Os- 
borne ran  on,  relating  the  events  of  the  trial.  Falkner's 
mere  appearance  had  prepossessed  every  one.  The  frank- 
ness of  his  open  brow,  his  dignified,  unembarrassed  manner, 
his  voice,  whose  clear  tones  were  the  very  echo  of  truth, 
vouched  for  him.  The  barrister  who  conducted  the  prose- 
cution narrated  the  facts  rather  as  a  mystery  to  be  inquired 
into  than  as  a  crime  to  be  detected.  Gerard  Neville's  testi- 
mony was  entirely  favourable  to  the  prisoner ;  he  showed 
how  Falkner,  wholly  unsuspected,  safe  from  the  shadow  of 
accusation,  had  spontaneously  related  the  unhappy  part  he 
took  in  his  unfortunate  mother's  death,  for  the  sake  of  re- 
storing her  reputation  and  relieving  the  minds  of  her  rela- 
tives. The  narrative  written  in  Greece,  and  left  as  expla- 
nation in  case  of  his  death,  was  further  proof  of  the  truth 
of  his  account.  Gerard  declared  himself  satisfied  of  his  in- 
nocence ;  and  when  he  stated  his  father's  dying  words,  his 
desire,  at  the  last  hour  on  the  bed  of  death,  to  record  his  be- 
lief in  Falkner's  being  guiltless  of  the  charge  brought  against 
him — words  spoken  as  it  were  yesterday,  for  he  who  uttered 
them  still  lay  unburied — the  surprise  seemed  to  be  that  he 
should  have  suffered  a  long  imprisonment  and  the  degrada- 
tion of  a  trial.  Osborne's  own  evidence  was  clear  and  sat- 
isfactory. At  last  Falkner  himself  was  asked  what  Jefence 
he  had  to  make.  As  he  rose  every  eye  turned  on  linn,  every 
voice  and  breath  were  hushed — a  solemn  silence  reigned. 
His  words  were  few,  spoken  calmly  and  impressively  ;  he 
rested  his  innocence  on  the  very  evidence  brought  against 
him.  He  had  been  the  cause  of  the  lady's  death,  and  asked 
for  no  mercy ;  but  for  her  sake,  and  the  sake  of  that  heroic 


FALKNER.  307 

feeling  that  led  her  to  encounter  death  amid  the  waves,  he 
asked  for  justice,  and  he  did  not  for  a  moment  doubt  that  it 
would  be  rendered  him. 

"  Nor  could  you  doubt  it  as  you  heard  him,"  continued 
Osborne.  '•  Never  were  truth  and  innocence  written  so 
clearly  on  human  countenance  as  on  his  as  he  looked  upon 
the  jury  with  his  eagle  eyes,  addressing  them  without  pride, 
but  with  infinite  majesty,  as  if  he  could  rule  their  souls 
through  the  power  of  a  clear  conscience  and  a  just  cause  ; 
they  did  not  hesitate — the  jury  did  not  hesitate  a  moment ; 
I  rushed  here  the  moment  I  heard  the  words,  and  now — he 
is  come." 

Many  steps  were  again  heard  in  the  street  below,  and 
one,  which  Elizabeth  could  not  mistake,  upon  the  stairs. 
Falkner  entered — she  flew  to  his  arms,  and  he  pressed  her 
to  his  bosom,  wrapping  her  in  a  fond,  long  embrace,  wliile 
neither  uttered  a  word. 

A  few  moments  of  trembling  almost  to  agony,  a  few  agi- 
tated tears,  and  the  natural  gladness  of  the  hour  assumed 
its  genuine  aspect.  Falkner,  commanding  himself,  could 
shake  hands  with  Osborne,  and  thank  him,  and  Elizabeth 
presented  him  to  Mrs.  Raby.  He  at  once  comprehended 
the  kindness  of  her  visit,  and  acknowledged  it  with  a  heart- 
felt thankfulness  that  showed  how  much  he  had  suffered 
while  picturing  Elizabeth's  abandonment.  Soon  various 
other  persons  poured  into  the  room,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
pass  through  many  congratulations,  and  to  thank,  and,  what 
was  really  painful,  to  listen  to  the  outpouring  talk  of  those 
persons  who  had  been  present  at  the  trial.  Yet,  at  such  a 
moment,  the  heart,  warmed  and  open,  acknowledges  few  dis- 
tinctions. Among  those  whose  evident  joy  in  the  result 
filled  Elizabeth  with  gratitude,  she  and  Falkner  felt  touched 
by  none  so  much  as  the  visit  of  a  turnkey,  who  was  ashamed 
to  show  himself,  yet  who,  hearing  they  were  immediately 
to  quit  Carlisle,  begged  permission  to  see  them  once  again. 
The  poor  fellow,  who  looked  on  Elizabeth  as  an  angel  and 
Falkner  as  a  demigod — for,  not  forgetting  others  in  their  ad- 
versity, they  had  discovered  and  assisted  his  necessities — 
the  poor  fellow  seemed  out  of  his  mind  with  joy — ecstasy 
was  painted  on  his  face — there  was  no  mistaking  the  clear 
language  of  a  full  and  grateful  heart. 

At  length  the  hurry  and  tumult  subsided — all  departed. 
Falkner  and  his  beloved  companion  were  left  alone,  and  for 
a  few  short  hours  enjoyed  a  satisfaction  so  perfect  that  an- 
gels might  have  envied  them.  Falkner  was  humbled,  it  is 
true,  and  looked  to  the  past  with  the  same  remorse  ;  but  in 
vain  did  he  think  that  his  pride  ought  to  feel  deeply  wound- 
ed by  the  scene  of  that  day  ;  in  vain  did  he  tell  himself  that, 
after  such  a  trial,  the  purity  of  his  honour  was  tarnished — 
his  heart  told  another  tale.    Its  emphatic  emotions  banished 


308  FALKNER. 

every  conventional  or  sophisticated  regret.  He  was  hon- 
estly though  calmly  glad,  and  acknowledged  the  homely 
feeling  with  the  sincerity  of  a  man  who  had  never  been 
nourished  in  false  refinements  or  factitious  woes. 

In  the  evening,  when  it  was  dusk,  said  Falkner,  "  Let  us, 
love,  take  a  walk."  The  words  made  Elizabeth  both  laugh 
and  cry  for  joy ;  he  put  on  his  hat,  and,  with  her  on  his  arm, 
they  got  quickly  out  of  the  town,  and  strolled  down  a  neigh- 
bouring lane.  The  wind  that  waved  the  heads  of  the  still 
leafless  trees,  the  aspect  of  the  starry  sky,  the  wide-spread 
fields,  were  felt  as  blessings  from  Heaven  by  the  liberated 
prisoner.  "  They  all  seem,"  he  said,  "  created  purely  for 
my  enjoyment.  How  sweet  is  nature — how  divine  a  thing 
is  liberty !  Oh,  my  God !  I  dare  not  be  so  happy  as  1  would 
— there  is  one  thought  to  chill  the  genial  glow  ;  but  for  the 
image  of  lost,  dead  Alithea,  I  should  enjoy  a  felicity  too  pure 
for  frail  humanity." 

As  they  returned  into  the  town,  a  carriage  with  four  post- 
ers passed  them ;  Elizabeth  recognised  at  once  Gerard  Ne- 
ville within — a  pang  shot  through  her  heart  to  remember 
that  they  did  not  share  their  feelings,  but  were  separated, 
perhaps  for  ever,  at  this  very  hour.  On  her  return,  worn 
out  with  fatigue  and  oppressed  with  this  reflection,  she  bade 
good-night  to  Falkner ;  and  he,  happy  in  the  idea  that  the 
same  roof  would  cover  them,  kissed  and  embraced  her.  On 
entering  her  room  she  found  a  letter  on  her  toilet — and 
smiles  again  dimpled  her  face — it  was  a  letter  from  Neville. 
It  contained  a  few  words,  a  very  few,  of  congratulation,  rq- 
minding  her  that  he  must  hurry  back  to  town  for  the  mel- 
ancholy task  of  his  father's  funeral,  and  imploring  that  nei- 
ther she  nor  Falkner  would  determine  on  any  immediate 
step.  "  I  cannot  penetrate  the  cloud  in  which  we  are  envel- 
oped," he  said ;  "  but  I  know  that  I  ought  not,  that  I  cannot 
lose  you.  A  little  time,  a  little  reflection  may  show  us  how 
to  accord  our  various  duties  with  the  great  necessity  of  our 
not  being  separated.  Be  not  rash,  therefore,  my  own  Eliz- 
abeth, nor  let  your  friend  be  rash.  Surely  the  worst  is  over, 
and  we  may  be  permitted  at  last  to  hate  no  more,  and  to  be 
happy." 

Elizabeth  kissed  the  letter,  and  placed  il  beneath  her  pil- 
low.    That  night  she  slept  sweetly  and  well. 

Early  in  the  morning  Mrs.  Raby  called  on  them.  The 
same  prepossession  which  Gerard  "had  felt  in  her  favour  as 
soon  as  he  saw  her,  had  taken  place  in  her  on  seeing  Falk- 
ner. There  is  a  sort  of  magnetism  that  draws  like  to  like, 
and  causes  minds  of  fine  and  lofty  tone  to  recognise  each 
other  when  brought  in  contact.  Mrs.  Raby  saw  and  ac- 
knowledged at  once  Falkner's  superiority  ;  whatever  his 
faults  had  been,  they  were  winnowed  away  by  adversity, 
and  he  was  become  at  once  the  noblest  and  gentlest  of 


FALKNER.  309 

human  beings.  Mrs.  Raby  had  that  touch  of  generosity  in 
her  own  character  that  never  permitted  her  to  see  merit 
without  openly  acknowledging  and  endeavouring  to  reward 
it.  The  first  thought  of  the  plan  she  now  entertained  she 
had  cast  away  as  impracticable,  but  it  returned  ;  the  desire 
to  give  and  to  benefit,  a  natural  growth  in  her  heart,  made 
her  look  on  it  with  complacency — by  degrees  she  dismissed 
the  objections  that  presented  themselves,  and  resolved  to 
act  upon  it.  "  We  complain,"  she  thought,  "  of  the  bar- 
renness of  life,  and  the  tediousness  and  faults  of  our  fellow- 
rreatures ;  and  when  Providence  brings  before  us  two  selected 
from  the  world  as  endowed  with  every  admirable  quality, 
we  allow  a  thousand  unworthy  considerations,  which  as- 
sume the  voice  of  prudence,  to  exile  us  from  them.  Where 
can  I  find  a  man  like  Falkner,  full  of  honour,  sensibility, 
and  talent  ?  where  a  girl  like  Elizabeth,  who  has  proved 
herself  to  be  the  very  type  of  virtuous  fidelity  ?  Such  com- 
panions will  teach  my  children  better  than  volumes  of  moral 
treatises,  the  existence  and  loveliness  of  human  goodness." 

Mrs.  Raby  passed  a  sleepless  night,  revolving  these 
thoughts.  In  the  morning  she  called  on  her  new  friends; 
and  then,  with  all  the  grace  that  was  her  peculiar  charm,  she 
invited  them  to  accompany  her  to  Belleforest,  and  to  take 
up  their  residence  there  for  the  next  few  months. 

Elizabeth's  eyes  sparkled  with  delight.  Falkner  at  once 
accepted  the  invitation  for  her,  and  declined  it  for  himself. 
"  You  hear  him,  my  dear  aunt,"  cried  Elizabeth  ;  "  but  you 
will  not  accept  his  refusal — you  will  not  permit  this  per- 
versity." 

"  You  forget  many  things  when  you  speak  thus,"  said 
Falkner;  "but  Mrs.  Raby  remembers  them  all.  I  thank 
her  for  her  kindness  ;  but  I  am  sure  she  will  admit  of  the 
propriety  of  my  declining  her  invitation." 

"  You  imagine  then,"  replied  Mrs.  Raby,  "  that  I  made  it 
for  form's  sake — intending  it  should  be  refused.  You  mis- 
take. I  know  what  you  mean,  and  all  you  would  covertly 
suggest — let  us  cast  aside  the  ceremonies  of  mere  acquaint- 
anceship— let  us  be  friends,  and  speak  with  the  openness 
natural  to  us — do  you  consent  to  this  ?" 

"  You  are  good,  very  good,"  said  Falkner ;  "  except  this 
dear  girl,  who  will  deign  to  be  my  friend  ?" 

"  If  I  thought,"  replied  Mrs.  Raby,  "  that  your  heart  was 
BO  narrowed  by  the  disasters  and  injustice  you  have  suffer- 
ed, that  you  must  hereafter  shut  youreelf  up  with  the  re- 
membrance of  them,  I  should  feel  inclined  to  retract  my 
offer,  for  friendship  is  a  mutual  feeling ;  and  he  who  feels 
only  for  himself  can  be  no  one's  friend.  But  this  is  not 
the  case  with  you.  You  have  a  heart  true  to  every  touch 
of  sympathy,  as  Elizabeth  can  testify — siiice  you  determin- 
ed to  live  for  her  sake,  when  driven  to  die  by  the  agony  of 


310  FALKNER. 

your  sufferings.  Let  us,  then,  at  once  dismiss  notions 
which  I  must  consider  as  unworthy  of  us.  When  we  turn 
to  the  page  of  history,  and  read  of  men  visited  by  adversity 
— what  do  we  say  to  those  of  their  fellow-creatures  who 
fall  off  from  them  on  account  of  their  misfortunes  ]  Do  we 
not  call  them  little-minded,  and  visit  them  with  our  con- 
tempt ?  Do  not  class  me  with  such.  I  might  pass  you 
carelessly  by  if  you  had  always  been  prosperous.  It  is 
your  misfortunes  that  inspire  me  with  friendship — that  ren- 
der me  eager  to  cultivate  an  intimacy  with  one  who  has 
risen  above  the  most  frightful  calamity  that  could  befall  a 
man,  and  shown  himself  at  once  repentant  and  courageous. 

"  You  will  understand  what  I  mean  without  long  expla- 
nation— we  shall  have  time  fur  that  hereafter.  1  honour 
you.  What  my  heart  feels,  my  voice  and  actions  will  ever 
be  ready  to  proclaim.  For  EUzabeth's  sake,  you  must  not 
permit  the  world  to  think  that  he  who  adopted  and  brought 
her  up  is  unworthy  of  regard  and  esteem.  Come  with  us 
to  Belleforest — you  must  not  refuse  ;  I  long  to  introduce  my 
girls  to  their  matchless  cousin — I  long  to  win  her  heart  by 
my  affection  and  kindness ;  and  if  you  will  permit  me  the 
enviable  task,  how  proud  and  glad  I  shall  be  to  repay  a  por- 
tion of  what  we  owe  you  on  her  account,  by  endeavouring 
to  compensate,  by  a  few  months  of  tranquillity  and  friend- 
ship, for  the  misery  you  have  undergone." 

Mrs.  Raby  spoke  with  sincerity  and  earnestness,  and 
Elizabeth's  eyes  pleaded  her  cause  yet  more  eloquently. 
"  Where  you  go,"  she  said  to  Falkner,  "  there  also  1  shall 
be — I  shall  not  repine  however  you  decide — but  we  shall 
be  very  happy  at  Belleforest." 

It  was  real  modesty,  and  no  false  pride,  that  actuated 
Falkner.  He  felt  happy,  yet  when  he  looked  outward  he 
fancied  that  hereafter  he  must  be  shut  out  from  society — a 
branded  man.  He  intimately  felt  the  injustice  of  this.  He 
accepted  it  as  a  punishment  for  the  past,  but  he  did  not  the 
less  proudly  rise  above  it.  It  was  a  real  pleasure  to  find 
one  entertaining  the  generous  sentiments  which  Mrs.  Raby 
expressed,  and  capable  of  acting  on  them.  He  felt  worthy 
of  her  regard,  and  acknowledged  that  none  but  conventional 
reasons  placed  any  barrier  to  his  accepting  her  kind  offers. 
Why  then  should  he  reject  them  ?  He  did  not ;  frankly, 
and  with  sincere  thanks,  he  suffered  himself  to  be  overruled  ; 
and  on  the  following  day  they  were  on  their  road  to  Belle- 
forest. 


FALKNER.  311 


CHAPTER  LI. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  which  do  sometimes  occur  in 
March — warm  and  bahny,  and  enlivening  as  spring  always 
is.  The  birds  were  busy  among  the  leafless  boughs ;  and 
if  the  carriage  stopped  for  a  moment,  the  gushing  song  of 
the  skylark  attracted  the  eye  to  his  blue  ethereal  bower; 
a  joyous  welcome  was  breathed  by  nature  to  every  heart, 
and  none  answered  it  so  fervently  as  Falkner.  Sentiments 
of  pleasure  possessed  all  three  travellers.  Mrs.  Raby  ex- 
perienced that  exultation  natural  to  all  human  beings  when 
performing  a  generous  action.  Elizabeth  felt  that  in  going 
to  Belleforest  she  drew  nearer  Neville— for  there  was  no 
reason  why  he  should  not  enter  her  grandfather's  doors  ; 
but  Falkner  was  happier  than  either.  It  was  not  the  vulgar 
joy  of  having  escaped  danger ;  partly  it  was  gladness  to  see 
Elizabeth  restored  to  her  family,  where  only,  as  things 
were,  she  could  find  happiness,  and  yet  not  divided  from 
him.  Partly  it  arose  from  the  relief  he  felt,  as  the  burden 
of  heav}',  long-endured  care  was  lifted  from  his  soul.  But 
there  w?.s  something  more,  which  was  incomprehensible 
even  to  himself.  "  His  bosom's  lord  sat  lightly  on  its 
throne" — he  no  longer  turned  a  saddened,  reproachful  eye 
on  nature,  nor  any  more  banished  soft  emotions,  nourishing 
remorse  as  a  duty.  He  was  reconciled  to  himself  and  the 
world ;  the  verj^  circumstances  of  his  prison  and  his  trial 
being  over,  took  with  them  the  more  galling  portion  of  his 
retrospections — health  again  filled  his  veins.  At  the  mo- 
ment when  he  had  first  accused  himself,  Neville  saw  in  him 
a  man  about  to  die.  It  was  evident  now  that  the  seeds  of 
disease  were  destroyed — his  person  grew  erect — his  eye 
clear  and  animated.  Elizabeth  had  never,  since  they  left 
Greece,  seen  him  so  free  from  suffering  ;  during  all  her  in- 
tercourse with  him,  she  n^^ver  remembered  him  so  bland 
and  cheerful  in  his  mood.  It  was  the  reward  of  much  suf- 
fering— the  gift  of  Heaven  to  one  who  had  endured  patient- 
ly— opening  his  heart  to  the  aflTections  instead  of  cherishing 
pride  and  despair.  It  was  the  natural  result  of  a  noble  dis- 
position, which  could  raise  itself  above  even  its  own  errors 
— throwing  off  former  evil  as  alien  to  its  nature — embracing 
good  as  its  indefeasible  right. 

They  entered  the  majestic  avenues  and  imbowered  glades 
of  Belleforest — where  cedar,  larch,  and  pine  diversified  the 
bare  woods  with  a  show  of  foliage — the  turf  was  covered 
with  early  flowers — the  buds  were  green  and  bursting  on 
the  boughs.  Falkner  remembered  his  visit  the  preceding 
summer.   How  little  had  he  then  foreseen  impending  events ; 


312  FALKNER. 

and  how  far  from  his  heart  had  then  been  the  peace  that  at 
present  so  unaccountably  possessed  it.  Then  the  wide  de- 
mesne and  stately  mansion  had  appeared  the  abode  of  gloom 
and  bigotry ;  now  it  was  changed  to  a  happy  valley,  where 
love  and  cheerfulness  reigned. 

Mrs.  Raby  was  welcomed  by  her  children — two  elegant 
girls  of  fifteen  and  sixteen,  and  a  spirited  boy  of  twelve. 
They  adored  their  mother,  and  saw  in  their  new  cousin  an 
occasion  for  rejoicing.  Their  sparkling  looks  and  gay 
voices  dispelled  the  last  remnant  of  melancholy  from  the 
venerable  mansion.  Old  Oswi  Raby  himself — too  much 
sunk  in  dotage  to  understand  what  was  going  on — yet  smiled 
and  looked  glad  on  the  merry  faces  about  him.  He  could 
not  exactly  make  out  who  Elizabeth  was — he  was  sure  that 
it  was  a  relation,  and  he  treated  her  with  an  obsequious  re- 
spect, which,  considering  his  former  impertinent  tone,  was 
exceedingly  amusing. 

What  was  wanting  to  complete  the  universal  happiness  ? 
Elizabeth's  spirits  rose  to  unwonted  gayety  in  the  society 
of  her  young  relations — and  her  cousin  Edwiji  in  particular 
found  her  the  most  delightful  companion  in  the  world — for 
she  was  as  fearless  on  horseback  as  himself,  and  was  un- 
wearied in  amusing  him  by  accounts  of  the  foreign  coun- 
tries she  had  seen — and  adventures,  ridiculous  or  fearful, 
that  she  had  encountered.  In  Mrs.  Raby  she  found  a  be- 
loved friend  for  serious  hours;  and  Falkner's  recovered 
health  and  spirits  were  a  source  of  exhaustless  congratula- 
tion. 

Yet  where  was  Gerard  Neville  ?  Where  the  looks  of 
love  and  rapturous  sense  of  sympathy,  before  which  all 
the  other  joys  of  Hfe  fade  into  dimness  ?  Love  causes  us 
to  get  more  rid  of  our  haunting  identity,  and  to  give  our- 
selves more  entirely  away  than  any  other  emotion ;  it  is  the 
most  complete,  the  most  without  veil  or  shadow  to  mar  its 
beauty.  Every  other  human  passion  occupies  but  a  distinct 
portion  of  our  being.  This  assimilates  with  all,  and  turns 
the  whole  into  bliss  or  misery.  Elizabeth  did  not  fear  that 
Gerard  would  forget  her.  He  had  remembered  through  the 
dark  hours  gone  by — and  now  his  shadow  walked  with  her 
beneath  the  avenues  of  Belleforest,  and  the  recollection  of 
his  love  impregnated  the  balmy  airs  of  spring  with  a  sweet- 
ness unfelt  before.  Elizabeth  had  now  leisure  to  love — and 
many  an  hour  she  spent  in  soUtary  yet  blissful  dreams — al- 
most wondering  that  such  happiness  was  to  be  found  on 
earth.  What  a  change — what  a  contrast  between  the  death- 
girt  prison  of  Carlisle  and  the  love-adorned  glades  of  her 
ancestral  park !  Not  long  ago  the  sky  appeared  to  bend 
over  one  universe  of  tears  and  wo — and  now,  in  the  midst, 
a  piece  of  heaven  had  dropped  down  upon  earth,  and  she 
had  entered  the  enchanted  gromid. 


FALKNER.  313 

'  Yet  as  weeks  sped  on,  some  thoughts  troubled  her  re- 
pose. Gerard  neither  came  nor  wrote.  At  length  she  got 
a  letter  from  Lady  Cecil,  congratulating  her  on  Falkner's 
acquittal,  and  the  kindness  of  her  aunt ;  her  letter  was  ami- 
able, yet  it  was  constrained ;  and  Elizabeth,  reading  it  again 
and  again,  and  pondering  on  every  expression,  became 
aware  that  her  friends  felt  less  satisfaction  than  she  did  in 
the  turn  of  fortune  that  placed  her  and  Falkner  together 
under  her  paternal  roof.  She  had  believed  that,  as  Elizabeth 
Raby,  Neville  would  at  once  claim  her ;  but  she  was  forced 
to  recollect  that  Falkner  was  still  at  her  side ;  and  what 
intercourse  could  there  be  between  him  and  his  mother's 
destroyer  I 

Thus  anxiety  and  sadness  penetrated  poor  Elizabeth's 
new-found  paradise.  She  strove  to  appear  the  same,  but 
she  stole  away,  when  she  could,  to  meditate  alone  on  her 
strange  lot.  It  doubled  her  regret  to  think  that  Neville 
also  was  unhappy.  She  figured  the  struggles  he  underwent. 
She  almost  thought  that,  if  he  were  happy,  she  could  bear 
all.  She  remembered  him  as  she  last  saw  him,  agitated 
and  wretched — she  alone,  she  felt  sure,  could  calm — she 
alone  minister  happiness — and  were  they  never  more  to 
meet? 

Falkner,  who  watched  Elizabeth  with  all  the  jealousy  of 
excessive  aflection,  soon  perceived  the  change.  At  first, 
her  gayety  had  been  spontaneous,  her  step  free,  her  voice 
and  laugh  the  very  echo  of  joy  :  now,  the  forced  smile,  the 
frequent  abstraction,  the  eagerness  with  which  she  watched 
for  opportunities  to  steal  into  solitude,  while  her  attentions 
to  him  became  even  more  sedulous  and  tender ;  as  if  she 
wished  to  prove  how  ready  she  was  to  make  every  sacrifice 
for  his  sake — all  these  appearances  he  saw,  and  his  heart 
ached  to  think  how  the  effects  of  his  errors  still  spread 
poison  over  his  own  life  and  that  of  one  so  dear. 

He  felt  sure  that  Mrs.  Raby  shared  his  uneasiness.  She 
and  her  niece  were  much  less  together  than  before.  Ehz- 
abeth  could  not  speak  of  the  thoughts  that  occupied  her ; 
and  she  could  not  feign  with  her  dear,  wise  friend,  whose 
eyes  read  her  soul,  and  whose  counsels  or  consolations  she 
alike  feared.  Falkner  saw  Mrs.  Raby's  regards  fix  anxious- 
ly on  her  young  relative ;  he  penetrated  her  thoughts,  and 
again  he  was  forced  to  abhor  himself  as  the  destroyer  of  the 
happiness  of  all  who  came  within  his  sphere. 

It  was  evident  that  some  communication  must  take  place 
between  some  one  of  the  individuals  thus  misplaced  and 
wretched.  Elizabeth  alone  was  resigned,  and  therefore  si- 
lent. Falkner  longed  to  act  rather  than  to  speak ;  to  de- 
part, to  disappear  for  ever ;  he  also,  therefore,  brooded 
mutely  over  the  state  of  tilings.  Mrs.  Raby,  seeing  the 
wretchedness  that  was  creeping  over  the  hearts  of  those 
27  O 


314  PALKNER. 

whose  happiness  she  most  desired,  was  the  first  to  entei'  on 
the  subject.  One  day,  being  alone  with  Falkner,  she  be- 
gan :  "  The  more  I  see  and  admire  my  dearest  niece,"  she 
said,  "  the  greater  I  feel  our  obligation  to  be  to  you,  Mr.  Falk- 
ner, for  having  made  her  what  she  is.  Her  natural  dispo- 
sition is  full  of  excellence,  but  it  is  the  care  and  the  educa- 
tion you  bestowed  which  give  her  character  so  high  a  tone. 
,  Had  she  come  to  us  in  her  childhood,  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able she  would  have  been  placed  in  a  convent — and  what 
nature,  however  perfect,  but  would  be  injured  by  the  system 
that  reigns  in  those  places !  To  you  we  owe  oiu-  fairest 
flower,  and  if  gratitude  could  repay  you,  you  would  be  re- 
paid by  mine  ;  to  prove  it,  and  to  serve  you,  must  always  be 
the  most  pleasing  duty  of  my  life." 

"  I  should  be  much  happier,"  said  Falkner,  "  if  I  could  re- 
gard my  interference  as  you  do  ;  I  fear  I  have  injured  irrep- 
arably my  beloved  girl,  and  that,  through  me,  she  is  suffer- 
ing pangs  which  she  is  too  good  to  acknowledge,  but  which, 
in  the  end,  may  destroy  her.  Had  I  restored  her  to  you, 
had  she  been  brought  up  here,  she  and  Gerard  Neville  would 
not  now  be  separated." 

*'  But  they  might  never  have  met,"  replied  Mrs.  Raby. 
"  It  is  indeed  vain  thus  to  regard  the  past ;  not  only  is  it  un- 
alterable, but  each  link  of  the  chain,  producing  the  one  that 
followed,  seems,  in  our  instance,  to  have  been  formed  and 
riveted  by  a  superior  power  for  peculiar  purposes.  The 
whole  order  of  events  is  inscrutable  ;  one  little  change,  and 
none  of  us  would  be  as  we  are  now.  Except  as  a  lesson 
or  a  warning,  we  ought  not  to  contemplate  the  past,  but  the 
future  certainly  demands  our  attention.  It  is  impossible 
to  see  Gerard  Neville  and  not  to  feel  an  intense  interest  in 
him ;  he  is  worthy  of  our  Elizabeth,  and  he  is  ardently  at- 
tached to  her,  and  has,  besides,  made  a  deep  impression  on 
her  young  heart,  which  I  would  not  have  erased  or  lessened  ; 
for  I  am  sure  that  her  happiness,  as  far  as  mortals  can  be 
happy,  will  be  ensured  by  their  marriage." 

"  I  stand  in  the  way  of  this  union ;  of  that  I  am  well 
aware,"  said  Falkner  ;  "  but  be  assured  I  will  not  continue 
to  be  an  obstacle  to  the  welfare  of  my  angel  girl.  It  is  for 
this  that  I  would  consult  you  :  how  are  contradictions  to  be 
reconciled,  or  rather,  how  can  we  contrive  my  absence  so 
as  to  remove  every  impediment,  and  yet  not  to  awaken  Eliz- 
abeth's suspicions  T" 

"  I  dislike  contrivances,"  replied  Mrs.  Raby,  "  and  I  hate 
all  mystery — suffer  me,  therefore,  to  speak  frankly  to  you 
— I  have  often  conversed  with  Elizabeth  ;  she  is  firm  not  to 
marry,  so  as  to  be  wholly  divided  from  you.  She  reasons 
calmly,  but  she  never  wavers :  she  will  not,  she  says,  com- 
mence new  duties  by,  in  the  first  place,  betraying  her  old 
ones ;  she  should  be  for  ever  miserable  if  she  did,  and 


FALKNER.  313 

therefore  those  who  love  her  must  not  ask  it.  Sir  Gerard 
entertains  similar  sentiments  with  regard  to  himself,  though 
less  resolute,  and,  I  believe,  less  just  than  hers.  I  received 
a  letter  from  him  this  morning.  I  was  pondering  whether 
to  show  it  to  you  or  to  my  niece ;  it  seems  to  me  best  that 
you  should  read  it,  if  it  will  not  annoy  you." 

"  Give  it  me,"  said  Falkner ;  "  and  permit  me  also  to 
answer  it — it  is  not  in  my  nature  to  dally  with  evils — 1  shall 
meet  those  that  now  present  themselves,  and  bring  the  best 
remedy  I  can,  at  whatever  cost." 

Neville's  letter  was  that  of  a  man  whose  wishes  were  at 
war  with  his  principles  ;  and  yet  who  was  not  convinced 
of  the  justice  of  the  application  of  those  principles.  It 
began  by  deeply  regretting  the  estrangement  of  Elizabeth 
from  his  family,  by  asking  Mrs.  Raby  if  she  thought  that 
she  could  not  be  induced  to  pay  another  visit  to  Lady  Cecil. 
He  said  that  that  lady  was  eager  to  see  her,  and  only  delayed 
asking  her  till  she  ascertained  whether  her  friendship,  which 
was  warm  and  lively  as  ever,  would  prove  as  acceptable  as 
formerly. 

"  I  will  at  once  be  frank  with  you,"  the  letter  continued  ; 
/'  for  your  excellent  understanding  may  direct  us,  and  will 
suggest  excuses  for  our  doubts.  You  may  easily  divine  the 
cause  of  our  perplexities,  though  you  can  scarcely  compre- 
hend the  extremely  painful  nature  of  mine.  Permit  me  to 
treat  you  as  a  friend — be  the  judge  of  my  cause — I  have 
faith  in  the  purity  and  uprightness  of  a  woman's  heart,  when 
she  is  endowed  with  gifts  such  as  you  possess.  I  had  once 
thought  to  refer  myself  to  Miss  Raby  herself,  but  I  dread 
the  generous  devotedness  of  her  disposition.  Will  you,  who 
love  her,  take  therefore  the  task  of  decision  on  yourself?" 

Neville  went  on  to  express,  in  few  but  forcible  words,  his 
attachment  to  Elizabeth,  his  conviction  that  it  could  never 
change,  and  his  persuasion  that  she  returned  it.  "  It  is  not 
therefore  my  cause  merely  that  I  plead,"  he  said,  "  but  hers 
also.  Do  not  call  me  presumptuous  for  thus  expressing 
myself.  A  mutual  attachment  alone  can  justify  extraor- 
dinary conduct ;  but  where  it  is  mutual,  every  minor  con- 
sideration ought  to  give  way  before  it ;  the  happiness  of 
both  our  lives  depends  upon  our  not  trifling  with  feelings 
which  I  am  sure  can  never  change.  They  may  be  the 
source  of  perpetual  felicity — if  not,  they  will,  they  must  be 
pregnant  with  misery  to  the  end  of  our  lives.  But  why  this 
sort  of  explanation,  when  the  meaning  that  I  desire  to  con- 
vey is,  that  if — that  as,  may  I  not  say — we  love  each  other — 
no  earthly  power  shall  deprive  me  of  her — sooner  or  later 
she  must,  she  shall  be  mine;  and  meanwhile  this  continued 
separation  is  painful  beyond  my  fortitude  to  bear. 

"  Can  I  take  my  mother's  destroyer  by  the  hand,  and  live 
with  him  on  terms  of  intimacy  and  friendship  T    Such  is  the 
03 


316  FALKNER. 

price  I  must  pay  for  Elizabeth — can  I — may  I — so  far  forget 
the  world's  censure,  and,  I  may  say,  the  instigations  of  na- 
ture, as  unreservedly  to  forgive  1 

"  I  will  confess  to  you,  dear  Mrs.  Raby,  that  when  I  saw 
Falkner  in  the  most  degrading  situation  in  which  a  man 
can  be  placed,  manacled,  and  as  a  felon,  his  dignity  of  mien, 
his  majestic  superiority  to  all  the  race  of  common  mortals 
around,  the  grandeur  of  his  calm  yet  piercing  eye,  and  the 
sensibility  of  his  voice — won  my  admiration ;  with  such  is 
peopled  that  heaven  where  the  noble  penitent  is  more  wel- 
come than  the  dull  follower  of  a  narrow  code  of  morals, 
who  never  erred,  because  he  never  felt.  I  pardon  him, 
then,  from  my  heart,  in  my  mother's  name.  These  senti- 
ments, the  entire  forgiveness  of  the  injury  done  me,  and  the 
sense  of  his  merits,  still  continue  :  but  may  I  act  on  them '? 
would  not  you  despise  me  if  I  did  1  say  but  that  you  would, 
and  my  sentence  is  pronounced — I  lose  Elizabeth — I  quit 
England  for  ever — it  matters  little  whei'e  I  go. 

"  Yet,  before  you  decide,  consider  that  this  man  possesses 
virtues  of  the  highest  order.  He  honoured  as  much  as  he 
loved  my  mother,  and  if  his  act  was  criminal,  dearly  has  he 
paid  the  result.  I  persuade  myself  that  there  is  more  real 
sympathy  between  me  and  my  mother's  childhood's  friend 
— who  loved  her  so  long  and  truly — whose  very  crime  was 
a  mad  excess  of  love — than  one  who  knew  nothing  of  her 
— to  whom  her  name  conjures  up  no  memories,  no  regret. 

"I  feel  that  I  could  lament  with  Falkner  the  miserable 
catastrophe,  and  yet  not  curse  him  for  bringing  it  about. 
Nay — as  with  such  a  man  there  can  be  no  half  sentiments 
— 1  feel  that  if  we  are  thrown  together,  his  noble  quahties 
will  win  ardent  sentiments  of  friendship;  were  not  his  vic- 
tim my  mother,  there  does  not  exist  a  man  whose  good 
opinion  I  should  so  eagerly  seek  and  highly  prize  as  that  of 
Rupert  Falkner.  It  is  that  fatal  name  which  forms  the  bar- 
rier between  me  and  charity — shutting  me  out,  at  the  same 
time,  from  hope  and  love. 

"  Thus  incoherently  I  put  down  my  thoughts  as  they  rise 
— a  tangled  maze  which  I  ask  you  to  unravel.  I  will  en- 
deavour to  abide  by  your  decision,  whatever  it  may  be  ;  yet 
I  again  ask  you  to  pause.  Is  Elizabeth's  happiness  as  deeply 
implicated  as  mine  !  if  it  be,  can  I  abide  by  any  sentence 
that  shall  condemn  her  to  a  wretchedness  similar  to  that 
which  has  so  long  been  an  inmate  of  my  struggling  heart  1 
no  ;  sooner  than  inflict  one  pang  on  her,  I  will  fly  from  the 
world.  We  three  will  seek  some  far  obscure  retreat  and  be 
happy,  despite  the  world's  censure,  and  even  your  condem- 
nation." 

Falkner's  heart  swelled  within  him  as  he  read.  He  could 
not  but  admire  Neville's  candour — and  he  was  touched  by 
the  feelings  he  expressed  towards  himself;  but  pride  was 


PALKNER,  317 

Stronger  than  regret,  and  prompted  an  instant  and  decisive 
reply.  He  rebelled  against  the  idea  that  Gerard  and  Eliza- 
beth should  suffer  through  him,  and  thus  he  wrote : — 

"  You  have  appealed  to  Mrs.  Rahy  ;  will  you  suffer  me 
_  to  answer  that  appeal,  and  to  decide  !     I  have  a  belter  right ; 
for  kind  as  she  is,  I    have  Elizabeth's  welfare  yet  more 
warmly  at  heart. 

"  The  affection  that  she  feels  for  you  will  endure  to  the 
end  of  her  life — for  her  faithful  heart  is  incapable  of  change  ; 
on  you  therefore  depends  her  happiness,  and  your  are  called 
upon  to  make  some  sacrifice- to  ensure  it.  Come  here,  take 
her  at  my  hand — it  is  all  I  ask — from  that  hour  you  shall 
never  see  me  more — the  injured  and  the  injurer  will  sepa- 
rate ;  my  fortunes  are  of  my  own  earning,  and  I  can  bear 
them.  You  must  compensate  to  my  dear  child  for  my  loss 
— you  must  be  father  as  well  as  husband — and  speak  kindly 
of  me  to  her,  or  her  heart  will  break. 

"  We  must  be  secretin  our  proceedings — mystery  and  de- 
ception are  contrary  to  my  nature — but  I  willingly  adopt 
them  for  her  sake.  Mrs.  Raby  must  not  be  trusted ;  but 
you  and  I  love  Elizabeth  sufficiently  even  to  sacrifice  a  por- 
tion of  our  integrity  to  secure  her  happiness.  For  her  own 
sake  we  must  blindfold  her.  She  need  never  learn  that  we 
deceived  her.  She  will  naturally  be  separated  from  me  for 
a  short  time — the  period  will  be  indefinitely  prolonged — till 
new  duties  arise  wholly  to  wean  her  from  me — and  I  shall 
be  forgotten. 

"  Come  then  at  once — endure  the  sight  of  the  guilty 
Falkner  for  a  few  short  days — till  you  thus  earn  his  dearest 
treasure — and  do  not  fear  that  I  shall  intrude  one  moment 
longer  than  is  absolutely  necessary  for  our  success ;  be  as- 
sured that  when  once  Elizabeth  is  irrevocably  yours,  wide 
seas  shall  roll  between  us.  Nor  will  your  codescension  to  my 
wish  bring  any  stigma  on  yourself  or  your  bride,  for  Miss 
Raby  does  not  bear  my  tainted  name.  All  I  ask  is,  that 
you  will  not  delay.  It  is  difficult  for  me  to  cloak  my  feel- 
ings to  one  so  dear — let  my  task  of  deception  be  abridged 
as  much  as  possible. 

"  I  shall  give  my  Elizabeth  to  you  with  confidence  and 
pleasure.  You  deserve  her.  Your  generous  disposition 
will  enable  you  to  endure  her  affection  for  me,  and  even  her 
grief  at  my  departure.  Never  speak  unkindly  of  me  to 
her.  Wlien  you  see  me  no  more,  you  will  find  less  difficul- 
ty in  forgetting  the  injury  I  have  done  you ;  you  must  en- 
deavour to  remember  only  the  benefit  you  receive  in  gain- 
ing Elizabeth." 
27* 


318  FALKNER. 


CHAPTER  LII. 

The  beautiful  month  of  May  had  arrived,  with  her  light 
budding  foliage,  which  seems  to  hang  over  the  hoar  branch- 
es of  the  trees  like  a  green  aerial  mist — the  nightingales 
sung  through  the  moonlight  night,  and  every  other  feath- 
ered chorister  took  up  the  note  at  early  dawn.  The  sweet- 
est flowers  in  the  year  embroidered  the  fields  ;  and  the  ver- 
dant corn-fields  were  spread  like  a  lake,  now  glittering  in 
the  sun,  now  covered  over  by  the  shadows  of  the  clouds. 
It  appeared  impossible  not  to  hope — not  to  enjoy ;  yet  a 
seriousness  had  again  gathered  over  Falkner's  countenance 
that  denoted  the  return  of  care.  He  avoided  the  society 
even  of  Elizabeth — his  rides  were  solitary — his  evenings 
passed  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own  room.  Elizabeth,  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  grew  a  little  discontented.  "  I  sa- 
crificed all  to  him,"  she  thought,  "yet  I  cannot  make  him 
happy.  Love  alone  possesses  the  sceptre  and  arbitrary 
power  to  rule  ;  every  other  aflfection  admits  a  parliament  of 
thoughts — and  debate  and  divisions  ensue,  which  may  make 
us  wiser,  but  which  sadly  derogates  from  the  throned  state 
of  what  we  fancy  a  master  sentiment.  I  cannot  make 
Falkner  happy  ;  yet  Neville  is  miserable  through  my  en- 
deavours— and  to  such  struggle  there  is  no  end — my  prom- 
ised faith  is  inviolable,  nor  do  I  even  wish  to  break  it." 

One  balmy,  lovely  day,  Elizabeth  rode  out  with  her  cous- 
ins ;  Mrs.  Raby  was  driving  her  father-in-law  through  the 
grounds  in  the  pony  phaeton — Falkner  had  been  out,  and 
was  returned.  Several  days  had  passed,  and  no  answer 
arrived  from  Neville.  He  was  uneasy  and  sad,  and  yet  re- 
joiced at  the  respite  aflTorded  to  tlie  final  parting  with  his 
child.  Suddenly,  from  tlie  glass  doors  of  the  saloon  he 
perceived  a  gentleman  riding  up  the  avenue  ;  he  recognised 
him,  and  exclaimed,  "  All  is  over !"  At  that  moment  he  felt 
himself  transported  to  a  distant  land — surrounded  by  stran- 
gers— cut  off  from  all  he  held  dear.  Such  must  be  the 
consequence  of  the  arrival  of  Gerard  Neville  ;  and  it  was 
he  who,  dismounting,  in  a  few  minutes  after  entered  the 
room. 

He  came  up  to  Falkner,  and  held  out  his  hand,  saying, 
"  We  must  be  friends,  Mr.  Falkner — from  this  moment  I 
trust  that  we  are  friends.  We  join  together  for  the  happiness 
of  the  dearest  and  most  perfect  being  in  the  world." 

Falkner  could  not  take  his  hand — his  manner  grew  cold ; 
but  he  readily  replied,  "  I  hope  we  do ;  and  we  must  con- 
cert together  to  ensure  our  success." 


FALKNERi  319 

"  Yet  there  is  one  other,"  continued  Neville,  "  whom  we 
must  take  into  our  consultations." 

"Mrs.  RabyV 

"  No  !  Elizabeth  herself.  She  alone  can  decide  for  us  all, 
and  teach  us  the  right  path  to  take.  Do  not  mistake  me  ;  I 
know  the  road  she  will  point  out,  and  am  ready  to  follow 
it.  Do  you  think  I  could  deceive  her  ?  Could  1  ask  her  to 
give  me  her  dear  self,  and  thus  generously  raise  me  to  the 
very  height  of  human  happiness,  with  deception  on  my  lips  ? 
I  were  indeed  unworthy  of  her,  if  I  were  capable  of  such  an 
act. 

"  Yet,  but  for  the  sake  of  honest  tnith,  I  would  not  even 
consult  her— my  own  mind  is  made  up  if  you  consent ;  I  am 
come  to  you,  Mr.  Falkner,  as  a  suppliant,  to  ask  you  to  give 
me  your  adopted  child,  but  not  to  separate  you  from  her :  I 
should  detest  myself  if  I  were  the  cause  of  so  much  sorrow 
to  either.  If  my  conduct  need  explanation  in  the  world, 
you  are  my  excuse,  I  need  go  no  further.  We  must  both 
join  in  rendering  Miss  Raby  happy,  and  both,  I  trust,  re- 
main friends  to  the  end  of  our  lives." 

"You  are  generous,"  replied  Falkuer;  "  perhaps  you  are 
just.  I  am  WiA  unworthy  of  the  friendship  you  offer,  were 
you  any  other  than  )^ou  are." 

"  It  is  because  I  a:n  such  as  I  am  that  I  venture  to  make 
advances  which  would  be  impertinent  from  any  other." 

At  this  moment,  a  light  step  was  heard  on  the  lawn  with- 
out, and  Elizabeth  stood  before  them.  She  paused  in  utter 
wonder  on  seeing  Falkner  and  Neville  together ;  soon  sur- 
prise was  replaced  by  undisguised  delight — her  expressive 
countenance  became  radiant  with  happiness.  Falkner  ad- 
dressed her  :  "I  present  a  friend  to  you,  dear  Elizabeth;  I 
leave  you  with  him — he  will  best  explain  his  purposes  aud 
wishes.  Meanwhile  I  must  remark,  that  I  consider  him 
bound  by  nothing  that  has  been  said  ;  you  must  take  coun- 
sel together — you  must  act  for  your  mutual  happiness — that 
is  all  the  condition  I  make — I  yield  to  no  other.  Be  happy ; 
and,  if  it  be  necessary,  forget  me,  as  I  am  very  willing  to  for» 
get  myself." 

Falkner  left  them ;  and  they  instinctively,  so  to  prevent 
interruption,  took  their  way  into  a  woody  glade  of  the  park ; 
and  as  they  walked  beneath  the  shadows  of  some  beautiful 
lime-trees,  on  the  crisp  green  turf,  disclosed  to  each  other 
every  inner  thought  and  feeling.  Neville  declared  his  re- 
solve not  to  separate  her  from  her  benefactor.  "  If  the 
world  censure  me,"  he  said,  "  I  am  content ;  I  am  accus- 
tomed to  its  judgments,  and  never  found  them  sway  or  an- 
noy me.  I  do  right  for  my  own  heart.  It  is  a  godlike  task 
to  reward  the  penitent.  In  religion  and  morality,  I  know 
that  I  am  justified ;  whether  I  am  in  the  code  of  worldly 
honour,  I  leave  others  to  decide ;  and  yet  I  believe  that  I 


320  FALKNER. 

am.  I  had  once  thought  to  have  met  Falkner  in  a  duel,  but 
my  father's  vengeance  prevented  that.  He  is  now  acquitted 
before  all  the  world  of  being  more  than  the  accidental 
cause  of  my  dear  mother's  death.  Knights  of  old,  after  they 
fought  in  right  good  earnest,  became  friends,  each  finding, 
in  the  bravery  of  the  other,  a  cause  for  esteem.  Such  is 
the  situation  of  Rupert  Falkner  and  myself;  and  we  will 
both  join,  dear  Elizabeth,  in  making  him  forget  the  past, and 
rendering  his  future  years  calm  and  happy." 

Elizabeth  could  only  look  her  gratitude.  She  felt,  as  was 
most  true,  that  this  was  not  a  cause  for  words  or  reason. 
Falkner  in  himself  offered,  or  did  not  offer,  full  excuse  for 
the  generosity  of  Neville.  No  one  could  see  him,  and  not 
allow  that  the  affectionate,  duteous  son  in  no  way  derogated 
from  his  reverence  for  his  mother's  memory,  by  entirely  for- 
giving him  who  honoured  her  as  an  earthly  angel,  and  had 
deplored,  through  years  of  unutterable  anguish,  the  mortal 
injury  done  her.  Satisfied  in  his  own  mind  that  he  acted 
rightly,  Neville  did  not  seek  for  any  other  approval ;  and 
yet  he  gladly  accepted  it  from  Elizabeth,  whose  heart, 
touched  to  its  very  core  by  his  nobleness,  felt  an  almost 
painful  weight  of  gratitude  and  love ;  she  tried  to  express 
it:  fortunately,  between  lovers  mere  langunge  is  net  nc 
cessary  ineffectually  to  utter  that  which  transcends  all  ex- 
pression. Neville  felt  himself  most  sweetly  thanked;  a 
more  happy  pair  never  trod  this  lovely  earth  than  the  two 
that,  closely  linked  hand  in  hand,  and  with  hearts  open  and 
true  as  the  sunlight  about  them,  enjoyed  the  sweetest  hour 
of  love,  the  first  of  acknowledged  perpetual  union,  beneath 
the  majestic,  deep-shadowing  thickets  of  Belleforest. 

All  that  had  seemed  so  difficult  now  took  its  course 
easily.  They  did  not  any  of  them  seek  to  account  for  or 
to  justify  the  course  they  took.  They  each  knew  that  they 
could  not  do  other  than  they  did.  Elizabeth  could  not 
break  faith  with  Falkner — Neville  could  not  renounce  her ; 
it  might  be  strange — but  it  must  be  so;  they  three  must  re- 
main together  through  life,  despite  all  of  tragic  and  miser- 
able that  seemed  to  separate  them. 

Even  Lady  Cecil  admitted  that  there  was  no  choice. 
Elizabeth  must  be  won — she  was  too  dear  a  treasure  to  be 
voluntarily  renounced.  In  a  few  weeks,  the  wedding-day 
of  Sir  Gerard  Neville  and  Miss  Raby  being  fixed,  she  joined 
them  at  Belleforest,  and  saw,  with  genuine  pleasure,  the 
happiness  of  the  two  persons  whom  she  esteemed  and 
loved  most  in  the  world,  secured.  Mrs.  Raby's  warm  heart 
reaped  its  own  reward  in  witnessing  this  felicitous  conclu- 
sion of  her  inteference. 

Whether  the  reader  of  this  eventful  tale  will  coincide 
with  every  other  person,  fully  in  the  confidence  of  all,  in 
the  opinion  that  such  was  the  necessaay  termination  of  a 


FALKNER,  321 

position  full  of  difficulty,  is  hard  to  say — but  so  it  was ;  and 
it  is  most  certain  that  no  woman  who  ever  saw  Rupert 
Falkner  but  thought  Neville  just  and  judicious ;  and  if  any 
man  disputed  this  point,  when, he  saw  Elizabeth  he  was  an 
immediate  convert. 

As  much  happiness  as  any  one  can  enjoy,  whose  inner 
mind  bears  the  unhealing  wound  of  a  culpable  act,  fell  to 
the  portion  of  Falkner.  He  had  repented ;  and  was  for- 
given, we  may  believe,  in  heaven,  as  well  as  on  earth.  He 
could  not  forgive  himself — and  this  one  shadow  remained 
upon  his  lot — it  could  not  be  got  rid  of;  yet  perhaps  in  the 
gratitude  he  felt  to  those  about  him,  in  the  softened  tender- 
ness inspired  by  the  sense  that  he  was  dealt  with  more 
leniently  than  he  believed  that  he  deserved,  he  found  full 
compensation  fdr  the  memories  that  made  him  feel  himself 
a  perpetual  mourner  beside  Alithea's  grave. 

Neville  and  Elizabeth  had  no  drawback  to  their  felicity. 
They  cared  not  for  the  world,  and  when  they  did  enter  it, 
the  merits  of  both  commanded  respect  and  liking  ;  they 
were  happy  in  each  other,  happy  in  a  growing  family, 
happy  in  Falkner ;  whom,  as  Neville  had  said,  it  was  im- 
possible to  regard  with  lukewarm  sentiments  ;  and  they  de- 
rived a  large  store  of  happiness  from  his  enlightened  mind, 
from  the  elevated  tone  of  moral  feeling,  which  was  the  re- 
sult of  his  sufferings,  and  from  the  deep  affection  with 
which  he  regarded  them  both.  They  were  happy  also  in 
the  wealth  which  gave  scope  to  the  benevolence  of  their 
dispositions,  and  in  the  talents  that  guided  them  rightly 
through  the  devious  maze  of  life.  They  often  visited  Dro- 
more,  but  their  chief  time  was  spent  at  their  seat  in  Bucks, 
near  which  Falkner  had  purchased  a  villa.  He  lived  in  re- 
tirement :  he  grew  a  sage  amid  his  books  and  his  own  re- 
flections. But  his  heart  was  true  to  itself  to  the  end,  and 
his  pleasures  were  derived  from  the  society  of  his  beloved 
Elizabeth,  of  Neville,  who  was  scarcely  less  dear,  and  their 
beautiful  children.  Surrounded  by  these,  he  felt  no  want 
of  the  nearest  ties;  they  were  to  him  as  his  own.  Time 
passed  lightly  on,  bringing  no  apparent  change  ;  thus  they 
still  live — and  Neville  has  never  for  a  moment  repented  the 
irresistible  impulse  that  led  him  to  become  the  friend  of 
him  whose  act  had  rendered  his  childhood  miserable,  but 
who  completed  the  happiness  of  his  maturer  years. 


1^ 


xwo-bLTdK 


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